


to dream of respite

by shipwreck



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - College/University, Asexual Character, Asexuality, Hot dad Koz, Insomnia fic, M/M, Mild Narcolepsy, Oral Sex, Sleep Deprivation, Slow Build, asexual!Jack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-03-07 19:20:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3180149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipwreck/pseuds/shipwreck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack suffers from bouts of insomnia and Pitch is a perpetual night owl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. circle the moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: smoking, attempted mugging, mild violence.

 

He’s beginning to suspect he’s seen _everything_ on Netflix.

Closing his browser with a disappointed huff, Jack tosses his phone onto the bed and unfolds his legs, laying himself sideways on the dormitory mattress. He stretches his limbs as far as he can, wriggling his toes in the hopes of dispelling some of his excess energy. 

It doesn’t work.

He hasn’t slept in two days. One would think Jack would be used to the steadily-escalating jitters and faintly nauseating anxiety that comes with insomnia, but here he is, with three hours to daylight and the dread of facing another exhausting day of lectures and tutorials on no sleep. He thinks resentfully of the textbooks propped open on the floor by the bed, irritated even the most monotonous of readings can’t lull him to sleep.

He sighs and pats around on the bed for his phone. He tugs it out from where it’s been wedged between under his thigh, unlocking it to check Twitter. Despite Central Standard Time meaning Tooth and her sisters back home should still be awake, Tooth’s last tweet was over an hour ago. 

Bunny’s on the other side of the world, and while their time differences are usually ideal for Jack’s insomnia, his digital silence means he’s probably in classes and won’t be available to play mildly stimulating Skype games. Even Sandy, who’s almost always up at this hour posting significantly vague strings of emojis, is noticeably absent from Jack’s timeline. 

He sighs again. It’s not like the internet would’ve been able to distract him from the simmering agitation that’s slowly building in his chest as the minutes tick by anyway. 

Jack locks his phone, leaving the room in darkness once more. 

It’s just gone three in the morning, Jack’s least favourite time to be awake; too late to head out for drinks, too early to go for a jog. He squints thoughtfully at the sleepy sky visible between the folds of the curtains, hums to himself.

The restlessness wins over, and he slides off the bed, taking the few steps across his tiny box-room floor, over to the window, tugging the curtains open wider. The moon’s face peers down at him, almost mocking his insomnia.

“You suck,” he complains, half-heartedly.

The moon dutifully ignores him.

“Nice,” he replies. _Asshole_.

He hefts himself up onto his dresser and presses the unlocked window open with his shoulder. The cold crisp London air floods into the room, loosening the tight knot in Jack’s chest, making it easier to breathe. He sticks his feet out the window, grinning at the shivers it sends up his calves. The empty rooftops of East London fill his bones with an aching restlessness, even with their quiet resplendence. 

It might be too early for a run, but it’s probably alright to pop over to the 24-hour Sainsbury’s and browse their ever-surprisingly disappointingly-limited DVD selection. If anything, he can take away a couple of film ideas and come home to watch them on Netflix. Jamie gave Jack his password before he left, so he could leech off him, and he could really go for a free distraction right now.

A soft breeze swirls through his wriggling toes, up his ankles, as though the wind itself is beckoning him.

Jack grins. Nothing for it then.

He grabs his phone, wallet and keys, toes his feet into a pair of flip-flops and bounds down the stairs three steps at a time.

The moment the biting brisk air hits his warm cheeks, Jack feels the serene calm that only unhurried wandering can bring, winter settling beneath his skin. It feels liberating just to be free from the pressure of sleep. 

The orange lamp-lit streets are vacant of animated cars and buses. The main street, usually bustling with people late into the evening, is deserted. For a city rumoured to never sleep, at this time of the night, it feels like a ghost town. After twenty minutes of walking through the silent streets, underdressed for the cold, toes numb and cheeks stinging, mind fuzzy from lack of sleep, Jack is beginning to worry he _is_ a ghost, anxiety gnawing at the heels of his feet like a hungry stray dog.

The neon lights of the supermarket signs are a welcome indication of life. There are a group of men exchanging words down the road, a security guard just by the entrance glaring into the night, and beyond, a few staff on the late-shift stacking shelves and tending cashiers. Jack isn’t capable of literally fly down the rest of the street and into the store, but it feels like that’s what he does, wind tickling at his scalp and heart soaring in his chest.

He chirps a cheery hello to the security guard and tries not to feel too bad that his greeting is more or less ignored. Not everyone fancies being out of the house at this time of the night, after all. His grin at the cashier braves more satisfying results; he’s met with a polite smile and nod. There are maybe one or two other shoppers apart from himself that he can see, but the store is too large to tell. 

Jack plans to take his time, now that he has an excuse to be unable to drift off to sleep. He strolls down each aisle, leisurely, as many times as he fancies, picking things up and putting them back down. He posts a couple of ridiculous selfies to Instagram while he’s in the clothing department, and maybe one or two vines in the fresh fruit and vegetables section. He’s in the midst of rearranging cupcakes with alphabets iced onto them, to spell ‘FARTS’ when another shopper brushes past him with a raised eyebrow. Jack feels his ears heat at the sound of an unimpressed scoff. 

The man is in grey slacks and a dark blazer, formal coat folded across his arm, with inky hair styled away from their face. He looks a tad too posh to be in a Sainsbury’s on this side of London at this time of the night. If Jack ran into him anywhere else, he’d peg him for someone who lived by Regents Park, likely too good to be caught buying - _what is it, a box of off-brand Earl Grey, and semi-skimmed milk?_ \- anywhere other than Waitrose or M &S. 

Jack shrugs inwardly and spells out the word ‘OLD’ in front of his existing masterpiece, pulling his phone out and posting a photo to Twitter. And if he happens to get a half-decent shot of Posh Guy’s completely-decent arse in the background, it’s an entirely unintentional coincidence.

The photo isn’t quite clear enough to be one for the wank bank, but Jack isn’t complaining.

His phone chirps with a notification.

@Bunnymund has mentioned you in a tweet: _@JackFrost Not sure how I feel about you using food to tell us some guy’s butt is expelling shabby farts, mate._

Jack snorts out a surprised laugh, covering it with a cough, and snatching up the closest item to him, when the owner of discussed butt turns to look at him. Logically, Jack knows it isn’t technically possible to feel somebody’s eyes on him, but, well. 

“Can I help you find anything?” a staff member asks suddenly from behind him. Jack whips around, conscious of the fact he’s just spent a considerable amount of time rearranging cupcakes to spell _OLD FARTS_ in the bakery section. 

“Nope!” he announces, sidestepping to block their view of the cupcakes. “I’ve got everything I came here to buy right here,” he says, flashing a convincing grin. He holds out the item he’d grabbed in his moment of panic, only to have his grin falter in despair at the loaf of fruit bread in his hands.

“Okay,” the staff member replies with a friendly smile. “But you don’t have to hurry, dear. Feel free to take your time.”

 _Good_ , Jack thinks, wildly, because he really doesn’t want to walk out of the supermarket with a loaf of fruit bread. He doesn’t want to to walk _anywhere_ with a loaf of fruit bread. He doesn’t even like fruit bread. _Nobody_ likes fruit bread.

Jack awkwardly shuffles down the aisle and over to the next. He can almost swear he spots an amused smirk on Posh Guy’s face, but when he turns his head to get a better look, the asshole is already headed off to the check-out counter.

After spending a couple of minutes contemplating leaving the loaf of bread amongst the candy bars the snack aisle, Jack decides it probably wouldn’t be fair to the staff member who’d have to move it back to the bread section after he left — and considering the limited staff, and Jack’s abysmal luck, it’s likely be the staff member he’s just spoken to. 

Which is how Jack Frost ends up paying £2.17 for a loaf of fruit bread he doesn’t want.

The self checkout is closed, and the only cashier open has no queue. Which meant Posh Guy has left the store already. Part of Jack is disappointed he didn’t get one last short-lived leer, but another part of him is relieved. Hot smug assholes make him uncharacteristically self-conscious. He’d much rather avoid them entirely.

 _Oh, definitely,_ Jack thinks faintly, as he walks outside the store hugging his new loaf of fruit bread, only to freeze not two feet from the entrance to see Posh Guy lighting a cigarette. He must have just bought them, if the plastic wrapping from the carton scrunched up in his hand is anything to go by.The litre of milk Jack had spied him holding in the store is tucked under one arm, box of tea sticking out of his coat pocket. His other arm shifts, cigarette coming away as he tilts his head back, exposing his long neck to let out a slow stream of smoke. 

Jack has never, ever had a thing for smoking. _Nobody looks hot smoking_ , Jack thinks faintly. And no, he isn’t aroused or infatuated. No. _No._

Hand raising, head lowering, the tip of the man’s cigarette burns brightly as he inhales, blazing golden eyes meeting Jack’s blatant stare. 

This is. Just. What? No. It's unfair. It’s all super _not okay._ What the _hell_? This guy is an absolute nightmare. He's the king of nightmares. 

 _No_ , Jack mentally scolds. _Go to your room. No supper for a week. Do not pass. Do not collect $200._

Deciding the sleep deprivation must be getting to him, Jack sucks in a deep breath and walks steadily past the Nightmare King. He doesn’t sniff him, or attempt a second once-over. Nothing so uncool. 

Getting tripped over and shoved to the ground by a group of three suspiciously inebriated men, not two minutes down the road, on the other hand, is _distinctly_ uncool. 

“Give us ya wallet,” one of them sniffs. “C’mon then, c’mon, hurry it up.”

“Seriously?” Jack groans, clutching at the throbbing pain at the side of his ribs. He could almost laugh. “I’m an unemployed American here on a scholarship exchange. I barely afforded this loaf of bread.” 

“Oi, grab the bread,” one of the men hisses to the another. 

“What? Why?”

“‘Cos I’m hungry, innit. S’free.”

“Oh yer. Alright, toss us the bread and ya wallet,” the first one demands. 

A foot presses down on the side of his hip, threateningly. Jack digs his hand into his back pocket and throws his wallet over. “Could you at least leave my campus ID? I mean, none of you are going to pass as students anyway.”

And okay, maybe he deserves that kick. 

He curls in on himself, ribs sore. It isn’t the most agonising pain in the world, but god, it _sucks_.

“Just the bread now, kid.”

“I’d really rather not,” Jack huffs. He _just_ paid for this bread, with money equivalent to twenty minutes worth of minimum wage labour - or in Jack’s case, two weeks of casually lurking around pubs for any dropped change. With his wallet being stolen, this is likely to be his lunch for the next week. 

“What’d you say?” one of the men growls.

“I said, no,” Jack repeats, standing his ground - so to speak. “You just stole my wallet; can’t you use that to buy your own?” 

“We's want yours.” 

“Give us the bread and we’ll let you be on your way, kid.”

Jack is probably going to have a stern talking to himself later about his seriously misplaced sense of self-preservation, because instead of doing as he’s told, he hugs the bread to his chest and asks. “Okay, fine, if I give you the bread, will you leave my phone alone?”

The three men look at each other.

“Give us the bread _and_ the phone.”

 _Why_ , Jack moans at himself.

“You know, I had considered stepping in,” cuts in a new voice, dark, rich, and endlessly _posh_. “But by the looks of things, you’re quite keen on stretching this out for as long as possible.”

Jack looks up to see the Nightmare King in all his beautiful glory, looking faintly amused, if not mostly unimpressed. He still has, to Jack’s incredulity, the litre of milk still tucked under one arm, and that’s not sexy. It’s weird. And only a little bit sexy.

“Fuck off, this don’t involve you,” the bigger of the three warns, puffing his chest out.  

Jack opens his mouth, possibly to say something self-sacrificing to turn the attention back on himself so the Nightmare King can make a run for it. 

Or possibly to point out it would make more sense to _involve_ the Nightmare King, since he probably has a lot more money than Jack — his coat alone is certainly more expensive than Jack’s phone and fruit loaf put together. _Surely_ it was only logical for the men to mug him instead? 

The Nightmare King looks to him, eyes piercing, and Jack finds himself closing his mouth slowly. 

Okay, yeah, Jack wouldn’t want to mug him either.

“You’re right,” The Nightmare King murmurs lowly, smiling with all his teeth. “This doesn’t involve me.” Taking a mollifying step back, he raises his hands placatingly, only to catch the litre of milk from under his arm as it falls -- swinging it in the largest man’s face.

Oh, apparently Jack is being rescued. 

The other two men shout and lunge, but Jack is already diving forward and grabbing at their ankles, shoes, whatever he can claw at. The both of them barely stumble, but they’re knocked over once the litre of milk smashes them both at the back of the head. 

The three of them lie on the ground; other than the rising and falling of their chests, they’re utterly immobile. They’re probably severely injured. Concussions, likely. In need of medical attention.

Jack looks up with a disbelieving squint. “Did you just use Sainsbury’s two-percent to save my life?”

The Nightmare King stares down at him. “I hardly think they were interested in your life.”

“Hey, rude,” Jack protests.

Letting out an amused huff, the Nightmare King steps over the bodies and holds out a hand. Jack can’t stop the smile from spreading on his face, he slips his hand into his unlikely hero’s much larger one, and lets himself be pulled up.

Only for his vision to flash, a wave of dizziness hitting him side on.  

“Are you alright?” 

“Yeah,” Jack replies, shaking his head to clear it. 

“Should I call an ambulance?” 

“ _No_ ,” Jack blurts, catching himself. “I just - I haven’t slept in a while.” To his horror, his knees knock together and he has to grab hold of some very nice forearms to keep himself up. _Can this get any more mortifying?_ Jack groans inwardly, struggling to keep his eyes open.

“How long, exactly, is ‘a while’?” he asks carefully, as Jack sways noticeably.

“Um,” Jack said, head nodding against his will. He rubs at his swollen eyes and gnaws at his tongue, trying not to grimace. “I don’t remember now. I knew about an hour ago. Shit.” He pulls away and manages to keep himself on his feet, but only barely; his body is keen on attempting to lift itself up onto the wind, despite gravity being very much against the idea. God, this is infinitely worse in front of someone hot. At least when he has to wobble out of lectures to take a nap on the campus green, there are only the hideous faces of his peers to judge him. 

“I’m sure they’re not that bad,” comes that absolutely _unfairly_ silky voice. 

Jack looks up and feels his face burn in despair. Oh god. He said that out loud. 

“So, how far do you live, Jack Frost?” The Nightmare King asks, snapping Jack’s wallet close before handing it back to him. Jack eyes the bodies still twitching on the ground. He’d really rather leave as soon as possible in case police need to get involved.

“Uh, I live on the university campus,” he offers, shoving it into his back pocket. Jack frowns as it falls to the floor, leaning over to pick it up and losing his balance.

An arm grabs him and reintroduces him to standing upright. His wallet is placed back into his hand for a second time.

Jack stares at it in confusion. _I’ve never asked you for anything_ , he thinks wildly at the worn folded square of leather. Not even when he was starving and desperate for food, has he been upset at his wallet. _Why must you betray me so?_

“I live around the corner,” comes the weighted reply. “I think it might be best if we take you there until you’re capable of getting home without assistance.”

Dazedly, Jack wonders if going home with strange men who attack people with semi-skimmed milk is a good idea, regardless of how fantastic their arses are. 

The widening smirk on the man’s face says maybe Jack said all that aloud. 

“I assure you the only thing I hope to use this for, from now on, is tea. I’m not particularly keen on having you pass out half-way home, but there is, of course, no obligation to accompany me.” 

Jack searches his face, feeling irrationally giddy and disturbingly calm all at the same time. He’s so attractive. He’s almost definitely a serial killer.

“Alright,” Jack agrees. “Lead the way, Nightmare King.”

“Please,” he requests, amused. “Call me Pitch.” 

 

#

 

When Pitch said he lived around the corner, he wasn't exaggerating. His flat is two minutes away, at most. Jack slips a couple of times on the narrow stairway leading up from the entrance on the street, but to his relief, Pitch doesn’t comment. 

Unlike Jack’s dormitory box-room, Pitch lives in an actual real-life Proper Adult apartment, with a kitchen, lounge, bathroom and all. Jack doesn’t get a chance to look around, Pitch ushers him immediately to the couch in the lounge. Stiff as it appears, it’s quite soft, sinking comfortably, wide and long enough for at least two of him. Jack lies on his back, blinking sleepily up at the ceiling, wondering idly if Pitch ever falls asleep himself here.

Returning with a pillow and fleece blanket in hand, Pitch hums softly in approval. “Make yourself comfortable. Get some rest.”

Jack sighs, tucking the pillow under his head and leaving the blanket folded at the end of the couch by his feet. Closing his eyes, he listens to the sounds of Pitch opening a fridge, no doubt to put away the nearly purchased the milk slash bludgeoning object. There’s a faint sound of a cupboard opening and closing, then water running. The sound of a kettle boiling. 

By the time Pitch pads back into the lounge, Jack still hasn’t managed to slip any closer to unconsciousness. It must show, because Pitch pauses, voice soft at the end of the couch.

“Jack?” Pitch murmurs lowly. “Is everything alright?”

Jack peels his heavy eyelids open. It’s dark in here, all the lights in the flat off; the only illumination, from the moon and street-lamps outside, trickles in through the gaps in the curtains. 

Pitch has propped himself against the end of the couch, white mug covered with a red heart, in one hand. Briefly Jack ponders if the mug belongs to a partner - it doesn’t seem like the kind of mug Pitch would use, but then, he doesn’t seem like the kind of person to bludgeon three men, or invite strangers to kip on their couch either, so Jack wouldn’t really know. He’s changed into a dark silk robe, the parting seeming to go on for miles.

Jack looks away. He suspects Pitch isn’t wearing anything underneath, tries not to wonder if he sleeps bare of clothing, not wanting to imagine what it’d feel like to press himself against every inch of available skin. 

 _This is what you get for developing preposterous crushes on strangers in supermarkets while severely sleep deprived,_ he thinks miserably.

“I’m honestly not going to do anything to you while you sleep,” Pitch frowns. “If you want, I can-"

“It’s not that,” Jack assures him, trying to sound as put-together as possible. “I have trouble sleeping.” He sees Pitch glance at his tea, camomile by the smell of it, and almost laughs. “Doesn’t help. I’ve tried. Worry not, your hard-earned tea is safe.”

“Would a proper bed make a difference?” Pitch asks, slowly.

“No,” Jack murmurs, eyelids drooping. “Trust me, you can suggest things to me all night, and I’ll have tried it.”

Pitch hums thoughtfully. “Warm bath?”

“I say ‘trust me’ and you ask more questions?” Jack huffs, letting his eyes shut. “No, not even slightly.”

“Honey and milk?”

“Nope.”

“Count sheep?”

Jack doesn’t bother replying, too tired to talk, despite his brain’s insistent on staying on.

“Whale music?”

Does that ever actually work for anyone? 

“Masturbate?”

Jack starts, eyes snapping open, his heart thumping in his chest. Pitch is sitting on the arm of the couch, taking a sip of his tea, and peering into the darkened room thoughtfully. 

“Are you awake?” Pitch repeats, and Jack manages a disbelieving laugh. For a moment there Jack had been certain he’d said… 

“Wide awake,” Jack confirms. Golden eyes dart to meet his before looking away.

“I hope that wasn’t inappropriate,” says Pitch, clearing his throat. “It was an enquiry, not a proposition.”

Jack’s cognitive functions aren’t at their optimum levels, so it takes him a moment longer than usual to catch on. When he finally does, his cheeks burns. Pitch _did_ say _masturbate_ that first time. “No, right, yeah, I know,” Jack manages, looking at the ceiling.

A beat of silence.

“So,” Pitch starts. “That’s a no, then?”

“Yeah,” Jack confirms, swallowing.

“To the enquiry, or the proposition?”

“ _Was_ there a proposition?” Jack asks.

“No.” 

“Well, yeah, then, yes to the no about the enquiry,” he clarifies. He closes his eyes, turning his head to the side. “But for the record, if there _was_ a proposition, the answer would be the same.”

“Of course,” Pitch says, and though he doesn’t sound offended, he stands up rather abruptly, the weight of it shifting the couch. Jack flutters his eyes open once more, just to catch Pitch moving away. “Goodnight, Jack.”

“It’s not that I don’t find you attractive.” Jack blinks slow, wishing he could keep his eyes open for longer than a few seconds. He wants to keep his thoughts together long enough to make this clear. “You’re probably the hottest person I’ve ever seen, and I'm on Tumblr _a lot_. I’m just… I don’t do that kind of thing - in general.”

“Sleep with men you’ve only just met?” Pitch asks drily.

“Sleep with people,” Jack shrugs, curling on his side so he can bury his nose further into his pillow; it smells amazing. 

“Oh. _Oh,_ ” Pitch breathes, understanding. 

“It’s not you, it’s me.” Jack jokes tiredly, with a yawn. It’s nice, talking to someone while falling asleep. “But you’re not asking, so it’s all moot anyway.”

“I’m not,” he whispers, and Jack would be miffed by Pitch’s insistence if he had the energy to. 

“Goodnight, Pitch,” Jack murmurs.

He thinks he might feel a warm hand squeezing his bare ankle but he’s already being dragged down into a dream.

 

#

 

Jack blinks awake blearily, disorientated and aching absolutely _everywhere_. His head is pounding like he’s spent a night drinking discarded beers at a pub crawl he wasn’t invited to, headache looming behind his eyes, throat dry and tongue swollen. God, he really needs to get more sleep. He isn’t sure how much longer he can do this.

_Crunch. Slurp._

He starts, squinting at the source of the noise. There’s a dark haired teenager sitting at the foot of his bed — or, the arm of the couch he’d slept on, to be precise. The teen stares at him with dissecting eyes, eating cereal out of a bowl noisily.

“Hello,” they greet, mouth full of food. “Who’re you?”

“M’Jack,” he replies foggily. Where is he? Hadn’t he been at home last night?

“What’re you doing on dad’s couch?” the teen asks, and it all comes rushing back. The supermarket, the cupcakes, the inebriated muggers, and _Pitch_. 

“Your _dad’s_ couch,” Jack echoes, hoarsely. “You’re Pitch’s kid?”

“His one and only heir to the throne,” she confirms dramatically. “Seraphina. Sup? You want some cereal? I got Krave, Crunchy Nut, Froot Loops, Cocoa Pops, you name it.”

Jack laughs weakly because it figures Pitch would have a kid just as weird and incredible as him. _Of course,_ he’s a hot dad. Just Jack’s luck. “Where is he?”

“Probably still asleep,” she shrugs. “He doesn’t get up until an hour before work.”

“Ah,” Jack sighs, sitting up and stretching his arms. “M’jealous, really.”

“He didn’t kick you out of bed because you snore or something, did he?” Seraphina frowns. “That’s way rude.”

“Wow, hey, no,” Jack flushes, shaking his head furiously. “We didn’t - I’m not - This isn’t - “

“Oh,” Seraphina laughs, surprised, and Jack wonders how often Pitch does just that. Bring people home. Kick them out after. “Sorry. Are you one of his students?”

 _Student?_ Jack blinks. Is Pitch a teacher? What kind of teacher lurks around supermarkets in the middle of the night, rescuing insomniacs by clubbing attackers unconscious with milk then offering them places to sleep?

Jack takes in his surroundings; now with the daylight pouring through the open curtains, there’s a lot more information to be garnered. The walls are painted a clean blue-grey, the kitchen a shade or two lighter, expensive appliances visible. A couple of framed portraits are nailed to the wall by the entrance. A few decorative black lanterns hang from chains on the ceiling by the balcony.

From a perfunctory glance, it isn’t entirely obvious a family lives here, but it’s impossible to miss now he knows to look for it. There’s a shoe-rack by the door, filled with an assortment of black fancy-looking shoes, but on the bottom row sit a couple of smaller-sized flats and sneakers. There’s a vinyl collection on the shelf, held up by a black porcelain horse and followed by a series of smaller, brightly-coloured plastic horses. There are DVDs placed in a tower with no discernible order; a couple of action movies, dramas, then a film called _Teeth_ and three separate copies of Mulan. There’s a small piano by the balcony, a neat stack of books on one end, and a messier stack of comic books on the other. 

This is a _home_.

“I should probably be going,” Jack says, meekly, suddenly feeling like he’s intruding. “I could really do with a shower, and I’m probably late for my lecture.” Both are true, but really, as nice a time as he had with Pitch last night, he doesn’t fancy having a chat in the sober light of day. He lays the pillow on top of the folded fleece and pats his pockets for his wallet and phone. “Let your dad know I said thanks?” 

“Cool,” Seraphina shrugs. 

He could _really_ use with a trip to the bathroom before leaving, but he’d rather not stay longer than necessary. He offers Seraphina a two-fingered salute in lieu of goodbye. 

“You forgot your thing,” Seraphina calls, just as Jack toes his flip flops on, pointing at a slightly squished loaf of fruit bread sitting on the coffee table. Jack stares; he definitely hadn’t that with him when he was stumbling here. Did Pitch kept it safe the whole time? Bizarre. 

He notes the mug Pitch had been drinking from last night was on the table too. He hadn’t been able to make it out last night in the dark, but the red heart had a black arrow through it in a very familiar logo. He sincerely doubts Pitch would date someone who listens to boy-bands. _Of course_ he has a daughter. 

“Keep it,” Jack grins, heading out the door. 

Briefly, he wonders how long Pitch had stayed in the lounge, drinking his tea, all while Jack slept.

 

#

 

@Toothiana mentioned you in a tweet: _Six hours since @JackFrost’s last tweet! Hope that means he got some sleep_ _♥♥♥_


	2. pick a filter

Jack is walking out of his last lecture for the day, ready for an afternoon of gloriously monotonous assignment-ing on his phone, and possibly an impromptu Skype session with Bunny late into the night. To Jack’s delight, Sandy has been tweeting him links to cute animals again; he’s currently watching a video of a puppy swimming while held above water, eyes glued to the screen. He’s so absorbed in his phone he crashes head-first into someone incredibly tall and incredibly solid. 

“Shit, sorry,” Jack blurts, rubbing his head and looking up. And no, _no,_ that isn’t fair at all. He’s just managed to convince himself he made the entire thing up on his head, and that even if it really happened, he didn’t leave a number or email or any form of contact and he wasn’t going to see him again _ever_.

But oh, Jack learned long ago that life is a series of cruel jokes made at his expense. 

“Hey, I wasn’t sure if you were allowed out during the day,” Jack teases. “Aren’t you allergic to sunlight?”

“Jack Frost,” Pitch greets with a small curl of his thin lips, and Jack finds himself smiling right back. “I was worried I’d run into you here, although, I hadn’t considered, if I did, it would be quite so literal.” He smooths a hand down the front of his blazer. Like the other night, he’s dressed sleekly in black slacks and a crisp white button up, blazer buttoned neatly, trademark formal coat around his shoulders, looking very cape-like. He has this air of regality about him, a natural elegance that’s atrociously pretentious and infuriatingly sexy.

Jack takes it all in stride, ignoring the way his cheeks feels hotter and his chest seems awfully tight despite the cold.

It isn’t that he’s never had a crush on anyone before - he’s been interested in more people than he can possibly keep track of. The difference, he supposes, is that Pitch is a real person, who seems to notice Jack is a person too. 

Is it possible to feel unworthy just by existing in the same time and space as another person? 

It must be. Jack is living evidence of the fact.

“Hey, how’d you know I go here?” Jack asks, unlocking and locking his phone, just so his hands have something to do.

“Your student ID might have given it away, what with it having the name of the university on it and all,” Pitch sighs, in a dramatically put-upon manner. He smiles, then, soft and sweet, and Jack thinks of black silk robes and the smell of camomile. “How are you?” he enquires. "Are you well?"

“Not bad,” Jack shrugs. “I’m on my way home. Where are you headed in your bat-suit? Off to save the world?”

“Hardly,” Pitch snorts. “A night of reading deplorable essays and losing hope for the future of humanity.”

“Regular Tuesday then,” Jack grins. 

“Indeed.” Pitch’s lip curls. His eyes narrow, staring at Jack like he’s an abandoned puppy who’s learned to do a trick all by itself.  “It’s nice to see you on your feet for once.”

“I, uh,” Jack manages, glancing up. His breath catches in his throat; Pitch is looking at him with something akin to interest, and Jack… nobody looks at him like that. It's very distracting. “I never said thanks, did I?” Jack asks, with a swallow. “For helping me, that night.”

“No,” Pitch replies. His voice is red wine, rich, tangy, bitter and startling all at once. “You don’t need to.”

“Maybe I could buy you a drink sometime,” Jack offers, before flinching. “I mean, a coffee or something. Not a… not like a date.”

“That’s probably not such a great idea,” Pitch replies, and Jack feels his heart drop and cheeks burn. It’s been so long since he’s asked anyone out, he’s forgotten what a slap in the face it is to be rejected. He remembers, quite suddenly, why he avoids it. 

“Right, of course,” Jack says, quickly. 

“If anyone should be buying, it should be the one of us who earns enough to afford proper footwear,” Pitch sniffs, eyeing Jack’s flip flops. “You’ll catch your death in those.”

“I,” Jack blinks. _What?_ He shakes his head. “Firstly, these are by choice; they show off my muscular toes. Secondly, don’t think I didn’t see you with Sainsbury’s own brand teabags.”

Pitch raises both eyebrows and turns on his heel, walking away. He pauses after a few feet, turning to Jack with a look of utter disdain. “Are you coming or not?”

 

#

 

@Toothiana has favourited your tweet: _“I’ve just checked in at Starbucks Coffee via @swarmapp [link]”_

@Toothiana has mentioned you in a tweet: _@JackFrost coffee selfie or it’s a lie!_

 

#

 

The sky is blanketed in a tired grey, but the city outside is still awake, buzzing with lights and sound. The low murmur of conversation is interwoven by the soft music playing overhead. They find seats at the back of the café, Jack perching on an ottoman and Pitch sitting prim and proper on an oversized plush armchair.

Despite Pitch’s protests, Jack manages to pay for their drinks using Starbuck vouchers he earned clicking ads online. He’d been ready with a handful of comebacks if Pitch gave him any snark about it, but to his surprise, Pitch had eyed him curiously, looking rather impressed.

“So, come here often?” Jack jokes, sitting down with his glass of iced chocolate. 

“My daughter has a mild infatuation with the seasonal drinks. I honestly don’t see the appeal,” says Pitch, setting his coffee down on the table. “I understand you met her, before you left,” Pitch remarks. “I apologise I wasn’t awake to see you out.”

Jack accidentally stabs the inside of his cheek with his straw. He totally whimped out that morning, not sure how to behave around Pitch after the excuse of sleep deprivation was no longer an option. 

“Your kid seems cool,” Jack tries. “Seraphina, right?”

“A nightmare and a dream,” Pitch snorts. He pulls out his phone, swiping at the screen for a couple of seconds before passing it over to Jack. 

Jack puts down his drink and scoots forward, careful not to brush his hand against Pitch’s when taking the phone. He immediately laughs when he sees the screen. Seraphina took a selfie while Jack was sleeping, a finger pointing at his slack face. Her eyebrows were raised and mouth pressed into a confused moue. 

Underneath the picture is a typical white message bubble. “ _Is this for me?_ ”

Jack grins and keeps reading. Below that message are a couple more.

“ _THANKS DAD JUST WHAT I’VE ALWAYS WANTED”_

“ _He’s kinda cute. We keep, Y/Y?”_

_“When are you getting up? Can I wake up your friend?”_

_“Daaaaaaaad.”_

_“Your friend left. He left us a pet loaf. I’ll feed it, you walk it.”_

Then a few other messages about picking up eggs and the underground being delayed. Jack scrolls back up to the photo and locks the phone. “She’s amazing,” Jack says, passing the phone back. Pitch’s fingers tickle his wrist. “Is she in college?”

“Highschool,” Pitch corrects. He pauses, eyes narrowed. “Don’t get any ideas. She’s fifteen.”

Jack’s jaw drops, “I wasn’t _going_ to get any ideas!”

“Good,” Pitch sniffs, lifting his drink haughtily.

“She’s not my type, anyway,” Jack adds as Pitch drinks. Not that he has a type per se, but even if he does, _fifteen_ is definitely not it. 

“I beg your pardon.” Pitch lowers down his mug to the table with an offended clink. “Sera is funny, witty, stubborn, obnoxious, weird, and the most astounding person you’d ever have the fortune to meet, you’d have to be from _the moon_ not to think her perfect, you’d be lucky if she -” 

“Wow, hang on,” Jack flounders. “I thought you didn’t want me to get any ideas.”

“I don’t,” Pitch sniffs, remembering himself. He clears his throat, and smooths his hands on his thighs before picking up his mug again, sipping daintily.

That bursting feeling in his chest feels like it’s getting bigger. And Jack feels his amusement last for a whole three seconds before his mental warning bells sound. His smile falters. Maybe seeing Pitch again wasn't such a great idea. 

 _Too late now_ , he thinks, shaking his head, and it probably is -- in more ways than one.

It’s just coffee _,_ he reminds himself. It’s not a big deal. _Really._

“So, uh, you’re a teacher, yeah?" Jack asks. "What’s that like?”

“Horrid,” Pitch answers smoothly. “Dreadful hours, gruelling work, insulting pay.”

“Then why do you do it?”

“I’m good at it,” he smiles, all sharp teeth and gleaming eyes. “There’s something terribly satisfying about scaring knowledge into wondering minds.” He leans forward, as though divulging a horrible secret. “Plus, I love hearing myself talk.

Jack laughs before he can stop himself. “What do you _teach_? Black magic? The dark arts? How to get away with murder?”

“You and Sera watch too much television,” Pitch drawls. “I think we’ve talked about me plenty. What do you do?”

“Oh, you know,” Jack shrugs amiably. “Lectures, tutorials, more lectures, more tutorials. There’s not much to say.”

Pitch eyes him down. “What are you studying?”

“Digital Communications and Culture.”

“You’re a postgraduate student,” Pitch blinks in surprise. “That’s a Masters course, and a tough one to get into at that. How old are you?”

“Old enough,” Jack grins cheekily. “How old are _you_?”

“Old enough,” Pitch echoes, “to have a daughter about your age.”

“ _What_!” Jack exclaims, with a laugh. “I’m twenty-three. She’s almost a _decade_ younger than me.”

“Twenty-three,” Pitch repeats, shaking his head, and wow, alright, Jack walked straight into that one. “How are you liking the course? Any good?”

“Yeah, it’s incredible,” Jack gushes. “I mean, some of the lecture topics are redundant, and a lot of the readings are quite basic, nothing you couldn’t pull off Wikipedia, but sometimes we get absolutely snowed in with information. Last week, we had a lecture from _the_ Nicolas Saint North, who co-designed eX_Mass with Desiree Cupido. I don’t know if you’ve heard of it; it’s a web-based microblogging application that connects people all around the world, by analysing all their existing social media — blog posts, status updates, check-ins, hashtags, shares, likes, reblogs, retweets, comments, _everything._ The algorithms involved, it’s like nothing that’s ever existed, online or offline. It has to be one of the most advanced frameworks in our fields of digital science and psychology. This goes beyond mathematics! This is — what, why are you looking at me like that? _”_

Pitch is sprawled back against the armchair, elbow against the armrest, cheekbone pressed against the knuckles of his hand. He holds a small, wistful smile on his face, an emotion Jack can’t quite recognise, slipped behind his eyes, flaring brightly for a moment before being tucked away.

For a moment, he thinks it looks like _fondness_.

He’s spent so long feeling invisible, that even the idea of having someone else spend ten minutes talking to him and still wonder who he is, feels earth-shattering. 

 “Any idea what you want to do after?” Pitch asks.

Unfolding his legs, he leans forward to grab his drink, stalling for time. He’s never been asked what he wants to do with his life; possibly because no one’s ever thought Jack would ever become anything more than a waste of space. Even now, he’s little more than the kid who’s always late to lectures or falling asleep in tutorials. 

Truth be told, even here, he has no idea what he’s doing; Pitch isn’t supposed to be _interested_. It’s easy to have a crush on the idea of someone; being into someone very much real with a very real personality, on the other-hand, is distinctly different. 

Jack didn’t expect Pitch to want to get to know him. Why would he? _Nobody_ wants to get to know Jack Frost. 

 “Not really,” Jack replies to Pitch’s question. “Did you always know you wanted to be a teacher?”

“I _still_ don’t know if I want to be a teacher.” Pitch raises a delicate eyebrow. “I’m sure I’ll figure it out when I’m older.”

Jack lets out a laugh despite himself. Pitch is funny, and charming, and of course he’s a hot dad with a kid ten times cooler than Jack. And Jack, for all the walls he’s built around himself, is peering through the peephole, considering letting Pitch through the front door.

They talk for a while, dancing on that fine line between friendly teasing and playful flirting. By the time their drinks are gone, Jack can feel his heart in his chest, so full it aches. He rubs soothingly at it through his jumper, breathing in carefully, as if that’s going to help.

They stand outside the coffee shop, Pitch’s apartment down one side of the street, and university campus on the other. The way Pitch lingers made Jack’s cheeks heat and lips tingle. 

Hope is dangerous -- Jack learnt this the hard way.

“We should do this again,” Pitch suggests, smiling easily.

His gaze drifts to the curve of Pitch’s mouth, and only the moon knows how much he _wants._

 _Don’t_ , Jack begs at himself. _Please don’t_.

He _knows_ what he’s like. He never does things half-way. He can’t silently crush on Pitch from afar; the more time he spends with him, the worse it’s going to get. He’s out to get his heart broken. It’s inevitable. 

There’s no way Pitch could possibly want the same things as he does. He has to get out while he still can.

“I don’t think I should,” Jack replies, quietly. “I had a really good time, and I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me, but I, I can’t do this again.”

Pitch’s eyes darken and he visibly tenses, before shaking his head, letting out a soft sigh. “It’s fine, Jack, honestly.”

“I’m sorry,” Jack whispers. “I just-”

Pitch holds out a hand, lips pressed into a determined smile. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Jack Frost.”

Jack stares at the offered appendage for a moment, at Pitch’s long fingers and neatly trimmed nails. He can make out red ink smudges on his fingers, and he wants to know what Pitch did to get them, whether they’re a perpetual part of him, the way insomnia is a part of Jack. 

He wants to know why Pitch lurks around supermarkets late at night, about what other teas he drinks, and what books he likes to read, about how he’s raised such an bright kid. He wants to spend time with Seraphina and get to know her too, and ask her why she has three copies of the same film, about what comic books she likes, and if she ever goes to music gigs with Pitch, and what _that’s_ like.

That _want_ , inside his chest, huge and intrusive, making it hard for his lungs to expand, and for his heart to pump blood, it will consume him whole - drown him - if he lets it.

Jack meets Pitch’s hand with his own, jolting at how warm his skin is compared to Jack’s.

Pitch throws him a last, secret smile, before turning on his heel and walking away. Jack watches the swish of his coat before turning himself, shoving his hands into the pocket of his jumper and pulling out his phone. 

He hopes Sandy has a whole load of pictures of kittens in sinks to send him.

“Jack, wait.”

Jack turns, heart thumping in his chest as Pitch strides back, looking conflicted, eyes flitting across Jack’s face uncertainly before he settles on an apologetic smile. 

“I’m not sure how useful this is, but _the Sandman_ and I ran in the same circles a while back,” Pitch comments, pulling out his phone. He takes Jack’s wrist with his free hand, using his other to bump his phone against Jack’s.

Jack looks down at his screen as his phone vibrates.

_Pitch Black would like to share a contact with you._

_ACCEPT // DECLINE_

Jack clicks it through, staring down at the email and phone number on his phone.

“Tell him _The Boogeyman_ sent you,” Pitch smiles, sharp teeth and glittering eyes. “Or not, you could tell him you hacked his database. He’s into that sort of thing.”

“This is,” Jack flounders, staring at his phone in wide-eyed wonder. “You really didn’t have to do this.”

“Maybe we were meant to meet for a reason,” Pitch replies, idly, like he hasn’t just given Jack a golden ticket. He let’s go of Jack’s wrist.

 _I would have fallen in love with you,_ Jack thinks desperately. He feels like he’s already there, six feet underwater, staring at the world through murky water, too numb to reach for the surface. 

“Wait,” Jack blurts, grabbing Pitch’s arm before he turns to leave again. Pitch’s eyes are so golden, like glittering honey, his nose so tall, his cheekbones so sharp, and it’s absurd, how attracted to him Jack is. 

Jack flicks through his phone, and holding Pitch’s arm, bumps their phones together.

He knows what’s on Pitch’s screen without having to check.

_Jack Frost would like to share a contact with you_

_ACCEPT // DECLINE_

Pitch’s eyes won’t leave his, staring at him as though if he looks hard enough, he’ll be able to see through into Jack’s thoughts, and that’s… 

Jack smiles back. People have a way of making Jack feel invisible, like he doesn’t exist - doesn’t matter. He’s spent his entire life feeling like a ghost, worried he could disappear and no one would know. 

Pitch looks at him like he can’t bear to look away.

“What do you want from me, Jack Frost?” Pitch asks, quietly.

“Whatever you’re willing to offer,” Jack replies. “What do you want from me?”

Pitch sucks in a sharp breath, eyes dark, as he answers. 

“ _Everything_.”


	3. wild uncertainty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: alcohol mention.

Jack isn’t a hacker by any means, but he thinks himself pretty adequate at using the tools he has at hand.  

‘Pitch Black’ has over 46 million results on Google, and over a thousand results on Facebook. None of the results match with the Pitch Black he's come to know. Jack sighs, letting his phone drop onto his chest. It isn’t completely unheard of for someone to lack an online presence; it is, however, extremely unlikely a lecturer wouldn’t be listed on a university database. _Pitch Black_ is obviously a username or nom de plume of some variation that he uses in real life.

Jack isn’t so great at getting to know people face to face; he much prefers to familiarise himself with people by exploring their digital interactions. And yeah, it’s a little detached, that’s what makes it feel safe — makes Jack feel safe.

Jack rubs at his eyes, annoyed at how swollen they feel, even with five hours sleep not even two days ago (he’d fallen asleep in the library on the computers, only to be woken by security telling him they were closing). He’s tired, but it’s a dull discomfort at the back of his mind. More than ridding his exhaustion, he wants the peace that comes with not having to think. 

He received the text message two hours ago.

_“Dinner? 7pm. You know the address.”_

He was in a lecture when his phone vibrated and he looked down to see the message printed. Even after the hall cleared out, those last stragglers packing up their things and leaving, Jack sat alone in the empty hall, staring at his phone, not really sure what he was looking at. He ended up moving on autopilot, finding himself lying on the campus green outside the library, watching the sky darken, lost in thought.

They’ve been texting on and off, for the last couple of weeks. Pitch sends messages, odd hours of the day, sometimes short inquisitive questions, and occasionally long paragraphs spanning several scrolls of a phone screen. 

Jack appreciates the latter the most, especially late into the night, when the world is achingly quiet and Jack yearns for a distraction. Pitch seems to keep late hours that coincide with Jack’s inability to fall asleep.

Despite being on the same campus, it’s surprisingly hard to run into each other; Pitch is obviously from a different department, and going by the timing of his replies, they run on different schedules during the day. 

They meet at the coffee shop, after organising times beforehand, and it’s fun in a way that’s also terrifying. Jack can’t imagine what Pitch has to gain, by keeping in contact with him. Jack is young, with little experience. He doesn’t have a dime to his name, or a single adventurous story to share. 

Which is why coffee isn’t so bad; easy conversation for the length of time required to consume a hot beverage. Half an hour to an hour is manageable. At least, if necessary, he can excuse himself to the bathroom and sit in a cubicle and breathe.

Dinner, on the other-hand. Dinner goes for at least an hour. 

And, well, it comes with connotations, doesn’t it? 

Or does it? Or is it just dinner? There’s such a thing as dinner between friends, isn’t there? 

Jack can’t even remember the last time he’s been _asked_ to dinner, so it’s not like he has other experiences to compare this to. 

“You know your phone is set to inform me whenever you’ve read a message, right?” 

Jack peeks an eye open, only to close it again and roll onto his side. “Maybe I haven’t replied because I haven’t figured out how to let you down without hurting your feelings.”

“I don’t have feelings,” Pitch quips, taking a seat next to him on the grass. Jack isn't facing him, but he can feel the brush of fabric against his back, feel the perceptible tremor in the air that comes with having close company. “And you wouldn’t be letting me down. It was an offer, Jack, not a request.”

Jack opens both his eyes and stares at the grass before rolling onto his back, hip knocking into Pitch. All long limbs and coat, Jack would’ve thought it awkward for Pitch to sit in the grass, but of course he manages to look elegant all the same, one leg stretched out, the other bent slightly with his forearm propped against it. 

Jack stares up at him, at the way the gloomy sky casts shadows on his face, the way his eyes seem to glow in the dark. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“What are _you_ doing here?” Pitch asks, quietly.

“Overthinking,” Jack replies. “Or sleeping with my eyes open. Your pick.”

A hand comes down, pushing Jack’s hair out of his face. Pitch has incredibly large hands, they’re warm against Jack’s skin, and he’s reminded of all those weeks ago, falling asleep on a stranger’s couch, with an anchoring grasp on his ankle.

“You’ll catch a cold sleeping out here,” Pitch says with a quirk of his lips, nails dragging gently against Jack’s scalp and making him shudder. “You’re irresponsibly underdressed for the weather.”

Gently, he shakes Pitch’s hand out of his hair. It’s too much, makes him feel too vulnerable, too exposed. Pitch doesn’t seem to mind, burying his hand in the grass instead. 

“I’m not good at this,” Jack finds himself admitting.

“Dressing appropriately?” Pitch raises an eyebrow.

“Relationships,” Jack answers, seriously. “I’m not even that great with keeping up with mutuals on Twitter, and that’s using Tweetdeck.”

“I’ll pretend I understood that,” Pitch huffs, leaning back until he’s lying in the grass next to Jack. They’re so close a lock of inky hair brushes Jack’s cheek. 

“I spent the afternoon trying to find you on Google,” Jack confesses, staring up at the sky. London’s ceiling is painted in monochrome, and Jack is itching to take his phone out.

“Anything good?” Pitch queries. He doesn’t sound particularly bothered by the whole thing, which Jack finds strange. 

“Nothing,” Jack replies, threading his fingers through the grass. His knuckles brush Pitch’s coat. “Is Pitch Black your real name?”

“No,” he says, softly. “Is Jack Frost yours?”

Jack’s breath catches, and he sits up, blinking down at Pitch in mild panic. “Why would you ask that? You’ve seen my student I.D.” Even if he used his position as a staff member to look Jack up, he’s in the university database as _Jack Frost_ \- there is no way Pitch could know anything about his past.

Pitch holds his gaze steadily, and Jack feels the urge to flee, to run. He can’t lose this, not now, not after having come so far. The semester is almost over, he has just over a month to go. He only has to pass his classes, submit his thesis, and he’s in the clear. 

 _Don’t_ , Jack pleads, eyes wide. _Don’t take this away from me._

“Jack, I don’t care what names you had before this one,” Pitch sighs, closing his eyes and tucking his hands behind his head. He’s the image of calm, as though Jack hadn’t been about to splinter in front of him. “You don’t owe me your secrets. I’d be honoured if you shared them with me, but they’re yours to keep.”

“What?” Jack breathes, confused. 

“You’re not a serial killer, are you?” Pitch interrupts, before letting out in a snort of derision. “Who am I kidding? You’d make a _dreadful_ murderer.”

“Hey!” Jack exclaims, lightly, mildly offended at the pseudo-insult and mostly grateful for the change in discussion. “I’d be a fantastic criminal.”

“Mmm, yes, I can picture it now: Jack Frost, serial killer, leaves a loaf of fruit bread by his victims as a calling card. The media will eat it up, figuratively speaking.” 

Jack smacks him playfully on the thigh. “You’re an ass.”

“Is that what you’re into?” Pitch asks, with a smirk.

Swallowing, Jack blinks rapidly, letting a small smile settle on his face before shaking his head. “Looks like it, doesn’t it?”

 

#

 

“Where’s Seraphina?” 

Jack’s looking at the photos hung up by the entrance of Pitch’s flat. Most of them are pictures Seraphina has clearly taken on her phone; to Jack’s amusement Pitch looks caught off guard in every single one of them, like Seraphina’s snuck up on him with her phone and shouted, ‘selfie!’ right before snapping the photos.  

There’s one of Seraphina when she was a lot younger, maybe four or five, reaching out to pet a cat in an alleyway; her hair was long even then, if a little curlier, and her cheeks rounder. Another has Seraphina in her early teens, on a black horse, smiling largely, with braces on her teeth and her hair in a thick braid.

Jack pauses on what appears to be the oldest photo; Pitch looks startlingly young in it, he can’t be older than twenty or so, hair inches shorter than it is now, features softer, less worn, a small bundle of blanket and child in his arms. He’s smiling up at the camera, and Jack wonders who had been there to take the photo.

“School camp,” Pitch calls from the kitchen. “I told her I could forbid her from going if she wanted, but she insisted it’d be an excellent bonding experience for her and her peers.”

Jack grins, abandoning the photos to head into the kitchen. “That’s normal, right? For kids to want to spend time with other kids.”

“Is it?” Pitch hums, thoughtfully. He’s just washed his hands and is in the process of chopping up vegetables. “I’ll let you know if I meet one.”

“Yeah?” Jack asks distractedly, investigating at the various things pinned to the fridge with porcelain fruit magnets. There’s a polaroid of Pitch and Seraphina, moustaches drawn onto both of them with sharpie. A couple of shopping receipts with coupons at the bottom. Thames water bill with the date circled in red. A page from a Boots catalogue with _3 for 2 on all Rimmel products_ circled in black ballpoint pen, and ‘ _BUY ME 3 BLACK TWIST-UP EYELINERS PLS_ ’ scrawled messily underneath. ‘ _No_ ’ is written red pen beneath that, followed by a sad face in black again. Jack runs his fingers over it with a smile.

“She goes through eyeliner like water,” Pitch comments, noting where Jack’s fingers are. “Try hoovering any room in this flat without finding bobby bins or a used stick of eyeliner.”

“It must be expensive, taking care of another person,” Jack says, eyes going back to the water bill. There’s an electricity bill tucked underneath it. Jack wonders how hard it is to take care of a child, having to pay for food for another person, for clothes and toys, for school and -

“We get by,” Pitch murmurs, voice closer than Jack expects. He turns, finding Pitch right behind him, gaze fixed on Jack intensely. He’s staring at Jack like he wants to drink him in, consume him whole, and Jack has to step back, only there’s no where to go, his back hitting the fridge, magnets digging into his back through his jumper. 

Pitch leans down, and Jack swears his heart stops.

“I need to get to the fridge,” Pitch whispers, breath ghosting against Jack’s cheek. 

“Oh.” Jack flushes, moving out of the way. He takes a seat on top of the small wooden dining table, noticing with annoyance that Pitch has an amused curve to his mouth. 

Jack has a feeling Pitch knows exactly what he’s doing.

_Smug asshole._

“Can I get you a drink?” Pitch offers, ducking his head into the fridge. “I have mediocre wine, and rubbish beer.”

“Do you have any juice?” Jack asks, perking up. Pitch lifts his head from the fridge to pin Jack with a look of possibly-judgmental surprise. “What? I like juice,” Jack shrugs. 

Pitch pours a glass of cold apple juice into a wine glass for Jack, and a glass of red wine from an already opened bottle kept on top of the fridge for himself, going back to preparing the vegetables. “Do me a favour? Fill the kettle and boil it, then grab the ravioli from the pantry, second shelf, next to the pasta.”

Jack hops off where he’d been sat, doing as instructed. He leaves the ravioli next to the kettle as it boils, sidling up to Pitch and watching him dice something green and leafy. There’s a thick worn cookbook open next to him, a post-it note sticking out of the top.

The date has been written in red pen, with a squished note written underneath in black. ‘ _he’s vegetarian use the spinach tortellinis!!!!!!_ ’

“Sera is under the impression you’re an eighteen year-old hipster I found in wandering the streets of Shoreditch,” Pitch explains. “She’s invented an entire backstory for you, including a pet ferret named Oblong.”

“I have no dietary requirements that I know of,” Jack swears solemnly. “Although, maybe I should adopt a ferret? He sounds like a cool guy, this hipster Jack.”

“Pity then, I’m here with you,” Pitch replies, drily. 

“I’d shove you in mock offence, but you're the only one of us armed,” Jack grins. Pitch pauses at that, kitchen knife hovering. After a moment of thought, he lowers the blade to the table, wiping his hands on a dishtowel before turning, his back pressed against the bench. 

“Come on then, let’s have it,” he challenges, spreading his arms in welcome, mouth quirked into sly grin. His eyes are dazzling, even in the dinghy lighting of the small kitchen. “Give me your best shot.”

Abruptly, Jack finds it difficult to swallow, cheeks heating. 

 _Is this…?_ Jack wonders, staring up at Pitch.

Pitch holds his gaze, the invitation evident.

It _is._

This is flirting. This is Pitch flirting, with _him_.

Jack moves closer, setting a hand on the bench either side of Pitch’s waist. He can feel the heat radiating off him in waves, can smell wine and wood and smoke and cinnamon. Jack peers up, realising for the first time just how much taller Pitch is in comparison. 

Pitch’s raised eyebrow descends slowly, until his face has softened into curiosity. He’s not sure what Jack will do. Jack licks his lips, watches as gold eyes track the movement. Shoving his fear aside, Jack swallows, pressing himself up onto his tip-toes and leaning in, their chests pressing together. Pitch closes his eyes, tilting his head forward.

Jack takes the opportunity to elbow him lightly in the ribs.

Pitch’s breath leaves him in a surprised _oomf!_ He laughs at the sound, filing it away for later.

“Brat,” Pitch huffs, straightening.

“Not bad, right?” Jack grins, stepping back.

“Better than expected,” Pitch concedes, with an agreeable turn back to the chopping board. “Kettle’s boiled. Help me cook spinach tortellini for Hipster Jack. He should be arriving any minute now.”

Jack can think of no good reason to argue. 

Through and after dinner, they talk late into the night, discussing subjects as innocuous as food, and debating topics as precarious as the efficacy of education systems in the U.K. versus the States. Jack has taken a couple of sips of Pitch’s wine, paying no heed to Pitch’s offer of his own glass. It’s nice — close. Intimate, almost.

“I’ve heard everything’s better in Sweden. Free healthcare, free education, less crime, more greenery. What’s not to like?” Jack yawns, stretching his legs out in front of him on the couch. It’s well past midnight and Jack’s in the hazy place between sober and sleepy. Pitch is settled on the other end of the couch, arm propped up against the back, drumming his fingers distractingly against the fabric. His fingers really are very long. “We should move to Sweden,” Jack murmurs.

“Mm, yes, I’ll take Sera out of school, you pack the bags ,” Pitch drawls. “Meet back here in ten?”

Jack is having too much fun to be embarrassed by his slip up, letting out a chuckle. “Alright, fine, I’ll move to Sweden. You stay here with your PG Tips and bourbon creams.”

“Not going to miss your precious fruit bread?”

“Funny story,” Jack snickers, rolling onto his side and pulling his feet up onto the couch. He digs his toes underneath the side of Pitch’s thigh, feeling daring. “I don’t actually like fruit bread. I _hate_ raisins. My friend Jamie used to give me his box of raisins from his lunchbox every day, and I’ve sworn off them.”

“You bought a loaf of fruit bread the night I met you,” Pitch frowns, sitting up straighter. “I fought three men so you could keep the damn thing.”

“I was spelling out rude words with Sainsbury cupcakes for Twitter and I saw you look over so I picked up the closest thing,” Jack laughs into the couch. “I tried to put it back but it was too late. I ended up using the last of my change on it.”

“You…” Pitch stares, bewildered. “You’re an absolute-"

“Useless sham of a human being?” Jack offers, giggling so hard his abdominal muscles ached. “Trust me, I _know_.”

“Marvel,” Pitch finishes, hand coming down onto Jack’s ankle.

Jack’s laughter abandons him in trickles, leaving his lungs squirming in his chest. Pitch’s hand is impossibly hot against his bare skin. 

He wants to uncurl himself from where he is on the couch, and crawl into Pitch’s lap, bury his face into his neck, see what noises he can draw out of him using only his mouth. Jack shivers at the flare of want coiling low in his gut, pulls his legs away from Pitch’s hand. 

“It’s late,” Pitch murmurs gently, lifting his hand to the back of the couch once more . “I have a lecture in the morning.”

“Oh, right, I should be heading home,” Jack says quickly, climbing off the couch.

“You could stay the night,” replies Pitch, making him pause. Jack stares at his flip-flops by the door, eyes wide, hoping wildly Pitch isn’t about to do what Jack suspects he is. “You could take the couch, or…” Pitch looks away, staring at the corridor that leads to his bedroom.

“Or what?” Jack asks, trepidation rising inside him like nausea. 

“I wouldn’t mind,” Pitch starts, looking hesitant, and Jack feels disappointment pour over him like a bucket of ice water.

“What, fucking me into your mattress?” Jack asks harshly, a sting shooting through his chest. How didn’t he sense this coming? The thing by the fridge, the wine, the ankle-touching. Of _course_ they were loaded gestures. God, he thought Pitch was _different._ This is why he doesn’t _do_ this -

“Sharing a bed, Jack,” Pitch finishes. He runs a hand through his hair. “Jesus,” he laughs, darkly. “How do you do that?”

“Do what?” says Jack, clenching and unclenching his fists.

“You manage to crawl under my skin and push me away without any discernible effort,” Pitch speaks softly, and he doesn’t look upset at all. “I heard you, that first night, and I’m still not propositioning you; this is an offer, not a request - you are not obligated to stay; you don’t owe me _anything_ , Jack.”

Jack rubs at the back of his neck, the desperate urge to flee still itching in his bones. “I wasn’t joking when I said I’m not good at this,” Jack bites out, frustrated. “It’s why I don’t do it.”

“I don’t do it either,” Pitch shrugs. “This is the first date I’ve been on in over a decade. All things considered, I think we’re doing okay, wouldn’t you say?”

“So this _was_ a date,” Jack grins, unable to help himself. A jolt of excitement fluttering in his chest. 

“Only if you want it to be,” Pitch smiles back. 

Jack wants a lot of things, but he knows how his luck works, and he knows better than to get his hopes up. His grin must slip because Pitch’s smile does too.

“I can see it, you know. I can practically _smell_ it,” Pitch murmurs, stepping closer. “Your doubt, your _fear_ , it’s written all over your face, it’s pouring off you in waves.” A hand comes up and cards through Jack’s hair; he leans into it without thinking, finds comfort in the touch. “But it’s not me you’re afraid of, is it?”

“No,” Jack admits, turning his face into the warmth of Pitch’s hand. “You don’t scare me.” To prove his point, he brushes a kiss against Pitch’s palm, a thrill running through him at the sharp inhalation of breath he hears in response. He blinks up at Pitch with hooded eyes, pleased and exhausted.

“Come on,” Pitch murmurs, hand squeezing affectionately at the nape of Jack’s neck.

Like the rest of the flat, Pitch’s bedroom is painted a bluish grey. There isn’t much, a large bed on a wooden frame, a sleek black dresser and wardrobe by the window. Jack plugs his phone into the wall socket by the bedside table, fidgeting with the bottom of his hoodie for a split second before thinking, _fuck it_ , and pulling it off. 

Jack leaves his shirt and boxers on, watching in mild despair as Pitch undresses almost fully, leaving only his black cotton briefs on. He is so very tall and so very lean and Jack is in so much trouble.

He raises an eyebrow at Jack. “Problem?”

 _No, but if you lie next to me there might very well be_ , Jack thinks furiously.

“Got a spare toothbrush?” he asks instead. 

Jack spends a minute rooting through the bathroom drawer. He manages to open the purple toothbrush with surprisingly steady hands. Slowly, he cleans his teeth, determinedly not meeting his own eye in the mirror. He knows he’s flushed, can feel the heat of his cheeks even in the cold bathroom. 

Once he’s rinsed his mouth out, he goes to leave his toothbrush in the glass jar on the side of the sink, only to pause. There are two toothbrushes already there; a red and white electric toothbrush with hearts on the side, sitting next to a black and blue one. 

Jack sets his toothbrush on the bench, by the hand-soap. 

He bumps into Pitch at the door, getting a face full of very, very nice chest. 

“Sorry,” Jack exclaims, voice coming out high-pitched and garbled, squeezing past and darting back into the bedroom. He’s getting under the covers just as he hears the bathroom door close shut. Staring up at the ceiling, he listens to the sound of running water, trying to calm his nerves. 

Jack has only ever shared a bed with one person before, and while he’s fallen asleep in more strange places than he can recall, there’s something incredibly personal about sleeping curled up next to someone.

He pulls his phone off the bedside table and scrolls through Twitter. He considers quoting some deep and profound lyrics, but ends up spamming a couple of sleep-related emojis. To his delight, Sandy favourites them immediately.

The bathroom door opens with a click, and Pitch wanders back into the room, flicking the lights off before climbing into bed. He leaves a respectable and dissatisfying distance between them.

“The alarm’s set for nine,” Pitch mumbles.

Jack locks his phone, laying it down on his chest screen-first. He taps his fingers on his ribcage, unsure how to explain he might not be able to fall asleep at all.

“Apologies in advanced for any grotesque snoring,” Pitch warns, startling a laugh out of Jack. 

“I’m sure I’ll manage,” Jack says, moving his phone back to the table, shifting onto his side so he’s no longer facing the ceiling. He can’t quite see Pitch, but he can make out the shape of him, can hear his soft breath, feel the stirring in the air. 

Pitch tilts his head in his direction. Jack fancies he can see his eyes glowing, even in the lightless room.

“Goodnight,” Pitch murmurs, his voice a deep rumble.

“Sweet dreams,” Jack whispers in reply, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. 

He closes his eyes, tries his best to empty his mind of thought, concentrating on the sound of Pitch’s breathing, the light drizzle of rain on the windowpane, the quiet hum of traffic. He can taste toothpaste behind his teeth, feel the soft sheets against his bare arms. His toes and ankles are cold, as they always are, sinking into the mattress.

The familiar ache in his muscles and drumming behind his eyes weigh him down, until it feels like the entire weight of the world is pinning him to the bed, trying to drag him through reality into unconsciousness.

Sleepily, he creeps his hand out, reaching for something to anchor him.

He slips away into sleep, just as a warm hand covers his own.


	4. what do we want

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: drug and alcohol mention, negative drug side-effects, emetophobia trigger warning.

Less than three weeks until final exams. Four weeks until his thesis is due. ****

Jack is at the food hall, making use of the daily complimentary meal that comes with being a boarder. He peeked in at breakfast and lunch, shuddering at the smell of hot food, but the promise of dinner always wins him over. There have been a couple of occasions he’s managed to charm some of the staff into smuggling him in more than once a day, but the Friday and weekend staff are always tougher to sneak past.

“Hey Phil,” Jack greets with a cheeky wink. Phil squints suspiciously, and swipes his I.D. before letting him through.

It’s the night before the weekend so the students are sparse. Most kids, even the ones away from home, have better things to do than be on campus, even this close to exam period. 

He stacks as much food as he can on his tray, stashing as many bread rolls as he can into his pockets while the staff aren’t looking, before taking his seat, splaying out his library books and opening his notes from lectures on his phone.

Eating as slowly as he can bring himself to, he writes his notes on the back of scrap paper from the library, making sure to take a sip of water between bites. 

 _Chill out_ , he tells himself firmly. 

His thesis deadline is steadily approaching, and though he doesn’t _feel_ stressed, his body is complaining in the form of constantly requesting for food and refusing to function properly on less than eight hours sleep. 

Neither things, Jack can promise.

His phone vibrates in his hand just as his food is turning cold. 

_Incoming call_

Eyebrows furrowed, Jack swipes to answer. “Uh, hello?”

“ _Jack_?” comes a small tinny voice. Jack pauses, pulls his phone away from his ear to stare at the screen in disbelief, only to put it back to his ear. 

“Seraphina?” Jack replies, confused. “How did you get my number?”

“ _I-I didn’t know who else to call._ ”

Jack drops his fork up; he pays no heed as it clatters to the floor. Seraphina’s voice is shaking, it sounds like she’s crying. 

“Wow, hey, what’s wrong?” Jack says, closing his textbook. “What happened?”

“ _I don’t - I don’t know, please you can’t tell my dad, I think I, I can’t, he’ll be so mad -”_

“It’s okay, it’s just me,” Jack says as calmly as he can. “Where are you? Can you tell me where you are?”

There’s muffled crying, the sound of loud music in the background flares and disappears, like a door opening and closing. 

“Are you at a party?” Jack asks, standing and shoving all his books in his bag. “Are you at a club?”

“ _I was… I was in a pub,_ ” she says, sounding dazed. 

“What’s the name of it? Do you remember?”

“ _I’m scared, Jack._ ”

Jack closes his eyes. “I know,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady. “I know. Just listen to my voice. You’re going to be alright. We’re going to have a bit of fun, okay? You found my number on Facebook, right?” Seraphina added him about a week ago. She’d been posting pictures of cats with their faces in toast on his wall every day. “I want you to put me on speakerphone, go onto Facebook, and check in. The first location that comes up, alright?”

“ _I don’t want to. Dad - he’ll see and -_ ”

 _“_ Your dad doesn’t have Facebook, remember,” Jack reminds her, digging into the front pocket of his backpack. “He won’t see.”

“ _You’re tricking me_! _He’s going to see, he’s going to be so angry, please, I can’t. Please, I don’t know where I am._ ” 

“Okay, okay. It’s going to be alright,” Jack says, earnestly, plugging in his handsfree set. He clicks into Facebook, scrolls through Seraphina’s timeline. Her last update was three hours ago, but she’s been tagged in a photo an hour ago. “It’s going to be okay. Is your friend Louisa there?”

“ _I don’t know - I couldn’t -_ _her phone is off, I’m in the bathroom._ ”

“Okay,” Jack says, running out of the food hall. “Okay, that’s good, stay there alright?” 

Louisa’s profile is partially locked, but her friends have public accounts. Jack clicks on the first post she’s tagged in, a photo with the location, and _bingo._

“The Golden Goose,” Jack reads the check-in. “Is that where you are?”

“ _I’m scared, Jack,”_ Seraphina whispers. “ _I’m scared._ ”

Jack flinches. “You like Mulan, right?” Jack tries. The Golden Goose isn’t far, but he’s used up most of his battery already and he needs to keep his maps open.

“ _What_?” Seraphina hitches, confused. 

 “Mulan. I saw it on your shelf, three copies; good film? I’ve never seen it,” Jack says, trying to keep his voice even. “What’s it about, can you tell me?”

Jack makes encouraging noises, trying to keep his breathing steady as he sprints across campus to the main entrance, Seraphina tiredly mumbling words into his ear. The map shows The Golden Goose is thirty minutes on foot, sixteen minutes by bus, twelve minutes by tube, and seven minutes by car. 

Half an hour is too long. The next bus isn’t for another seven minutes. The tube has no phone signal. 

 _Fuck_ , Jack thinks, tugging at his hair. He doesn’t have a choice. He covers the speaker with his hand and shouts out into the street.

“ _Taxi_!”

 

#

 

 _Come on_ , Jack thinks, holding his absolutely pitiful excuse for a phone to his ear. _One more call, that’s all I need. Do this for me and I’ll never open twenty apps at the same time ever again._

Click.

“ _Jack?_ ”

“Pitch, thank god,” Jack gushes. He wasn’t sure his battery would hold out. Seraphina is propped up against him, her eyes fluttering in a way that Jack’s do when he’s on the verge of collapsing from exhaustion. Jack smiles weakly at the taxi driver, who seems less than happy. “So, er, this is going to sound really, really bad, but can you come downstairs with your wallet?”

“ _What?_ ”

Pitch is still dressed for work, sans coat, his hair is dishevelled, like he’s been running his hands through it. He takes one look at Jack holding Seraphina up by the waist, and his eyes narrow into slits. He approaches the taxi driver’s window, leaning down.

“Uh, this isn’t what it looks like,” Jack says, sheepishly.

“How much do they owe you?” Pitch asks the driver. 

Upstairs, Pitch puts Seraphina to bed, leaves a bottle of water on her bedside table, and a bucket by the bed. Jack watches quietly as he brushes hair out of her face, presses a kiss to her forehead. The scene is painfully personal.

Jack leaves them to it, padding to the kitchen, and sitting in his usual spot atop the kitchen table. 

He pulls his phone out of his pocket, but the screen is black; the battery must have died on the way up. He sighs, putting it down on the table and rubbing his face in his hands only to grimace. His hands smell like beer and throw-up. Jack looks down at his hoody, only to grimace. He pulls it over his head, just as Pitch stops in the doorway, the moonlight from the kitchen window splashing high on his nose and cheekbones, eyes hidden by shadows.

“She called me,” Jack says quietly, his jumper a sodden pile in his lap. “I didn’t want to hang up on her; I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You could have texted me,” Pitch hisses, his tone seething. “You could have added me into the call.”

Jack runs his hand through his hair, it’s clumped together with sweat from when he’d run from across campus to the closest main road, from the panic that had rushed through him at the prospect of something happening to Seraphina. 

“Yeah,” he says, wearily. “I didn’t think of it, okay?”

“Do you ever _think_ , Jack?” Pitch spits, moving closer, out of the light and into the dark. “It’s a wonder you’re still alive, always running into danger, recklessly barging wherever you please, with absolute disregard for your surroundings. You make a mess, everywhere you go, don’t you? I should have known better than to invite you into my home, you’re a _child_ ; you had no right - _no right,_ not to call me the moment _my daughter_ contacted you; who do you think you _are_?”

“I’m _nobody_ ,” Jack says, louder than he intends. He rubs his tired eyes with the back of his wrist. “I get it, I messed up, I should have contacted you right away, you’re right, I’m sorry.” Now that the adrenaline has worn off, his body is eager to sleep, eyes drooping, head heavy. He can’t remember how many days it’s been since he’s last rested properly. He’s pretty sure he tweeted about it, but his phone’s out of battery and he’s not sure asking to charge it is the best idea given Pitch’s mood. 

“I did the best that I could,” Jack says, and he’s so tired he’s sure he’s about to cry. “I’ve never - nobody’s ever asked me for help before, I didn’t know what to do,” he repeats. He has no idea what he’s supposed to say to make things right. 

Shakily, he climbs off the kitchen table, stumbling over to get through to the lounge so he can leave through the entrance, but his head swims and vision flashes, and ugh, this is the absolute worst timing. He struggles to blink his eyes open, feeling as though his entire body is melting into the floor, starting with his face, and oh, yes, those are tears dripping down his face, that’s his chest shaking with sobs. 

 _Jack_? 

 _Jack_ …

Warm, firm hands grasp at his wrists, keeping him from completely buckling into a pile.

“M’sorry,” Jack manages, head hanging heavily. He tries to stay awake, bites feebly at his tongue, tries to widen his eyes, curl his toes, but sleep claims him.

He doesn’t manage to ponder how, even with Pitch furious with him, he feels an unshakeable sense of safety.

 

#

 

Jack dreams of the cold — of oxygen and warmth abandoning him, until there’s nothing but ice water filling his lungs. He dreams of a small hand covering his, of brown eyes and a toothy smile.

Jack wakes with a soft gasp to the sound of angry bickering.

“… _why you’re so angry, nobody got hurt and I’m…”_

_“…lucky you didn’t overdose or worse…”_

_“…was one joint, dad! You’re acting like you’ve never done…”_

_“…underage drinking and illicit drugs, if you think you’re…_ ”

The events of last night seem like a bad dream. He spends a good thirty seconds trying to blink the blur out of his eyes, wondering if he’s really awake, before realising it’s sleep crusted at his lashes. He rubs it off with the back of his hand, grimacing.

He sits up blearily, trying to calm the incessant drumming against the inside of his skull with his hand and not managing. He gives up and ends up lying back down, covering his eyes with his arm, settling into a light doze. 

The shouting continues for a good ten minutes more, getting progressively louder until a door slams, making Jack lurch out of his superficial slumber and sit up again, looking around wildly. 

Pitch strides into the room in his robe, muttering under his breath. He snatches a packet of cigarettes from the top of the piano and violently flings the balcony door to the side, stepping out and leaning against the railing with a frustrated growl. 

Jack considers heading out to speak to him, maybe thank him for not rolling Jack’s unconscious body out onto the street, or maybe ask him if he’s okay, even though he clearly isn’t. 

But Jack hears Seraphina crying angrily, the muffled thumps of things being thrown on the floor in frustration, and he knows what it’s like to be fifteen and hate yourself. He sighs, clambering to his feet and padding to her door. He knocks gently, only to get a firm, ‘ _go away!’_

“It’s Jack,” he murmurs, stifling a yawn. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t want to talk to you either!” she snaps through the door.

Jack sighs, leaning his face against the closed door for a moment before decidedly sliding to the floor, leaning his forehead against the cool wood.

“S’okay,” Jack mumbles. “You don’t have to talk, I can do all the talking, I’m actually very good at it, I’ve had years of practice,” he says with a sleepy smile. He hears a derisive snort and thinks faintly that if Seraphina didn’t have the exact same eyes as Pitch, he would know she was his daughter from that noise alone. “It’s true. You probably didn’t know this, but I didn’t have any friends up until a while ago, so I didn’t really have anyone else to talk to but myself.”

Seraphina probably doesn’t want to hear this, hear his sob story, but Jack’s tired, and a little homesick, which is ridiculous, because here, in this city, he has a bed and food and a place to charge his phone. Jamie isn’t here though, and Tooth feels so far away — even though they were never in the same state, having her in the same timezone felt like having her close. And part of him misses having all the time in the world to scroll through his feed, not having to wait to reply to other people’s updates, instead of having to hurriedly type into his phone between classes and assignments and bouts of terrible sleep.

He’s lonely. Even now, with two people barely five feet away from him, there’s a hollow ache he can’t fill.

So, he talks. He strings together dark blue words he’s told the moon on countless, endless nights, begging to know why, why he was born, why he was made, if only to live like this; hardly living — barely existing.

“I didn’t grow up with a family,” Jack tells Seraphina. “I never had any parents to tell me what to do, or who I could hang out with, or what time I had to be home by. I’ve never had anyone to worry about me, to care if anything happened to me. No one would have noticed if the kid who slept on the park bench outside the library got sick or disappeared. Even now, who would notice if I never made it home?”

Seraphina is still quiet on the other side of the door. Jack’s not sure if she’s even listening. She could’ve pulled on a pair of headphones and tuned him out already, but he doesn’t mind. The moon never paid him any heed either.

“Not a lot of things scare me, y’know? I’ve slept in trees, behind dumpsters, on floors in abandoned houses, I’ve been in prison cells overnight, been mugged, punched, kicked, spat at, I’ve gone weeks without food, days without water,” Jack recounts, closing his eyes. “But _nothing_ compares to how scared I was when you called me last night.

“And I’ve only known you for a split second of your life,” Jack continues. “Your dad, he’s known you for the entirety of it; can you imagine how scared he must have been? How scared he must still be? He probably wishes he could lock you up, keep you safe from the rest of the world - I _know_ , because I kind of want to do that,” he laughs. He thinks he hears movement on the other side of the door. He reaches his hand out, presses his fingertips against the cool surface, wondering if she’s listening.

“It’s terrifying, being reminded that everything important to you can be taken away, at any moment; it makes you angry, makes you want to fight to protect it,” Jack mumbles with a tired smile. “That’s why your dad’s upset, Seraphina — because you’re worth fighting for. Because he loves you.”

The door clicks open quite suddenly and Jack lurches forward, catching himself just in time. He squints up at Seraphina, dressed in fresh clothes, hair in damp curls, her eyes puffy and red, tear-tracks down her cheeks. She stares down at him wordlessly, and for a second Jack worries that she’s angry at him.

“Thank you,” she whispers, before falling to her knees and wrapping her arms around his neck. Jack gasps, winded at the embrace. “Thank you, Jack.”

Jack squeezes her shoulder gently, and leans back, untangling her arms from his neck. A shadow’s fallen on both of them, and when Jack looks up, he’s not surprised to find Pitch standing above them. 

“I’m sorry,” Seraphina sniffs, getting to her feet and wrapping her arms around his waist. “I’m really sorry, I won’t do it again, you know I didn’t mean to, please don’t be angry.”

Pitch makes a shushing noise, wrapping his arms around her and burying his nose into her hair. Jack rubs at his eyes again, stifling another yawn. He smiles tiredly when he notices Pitch staring at him, offering Jack a curt nod.

Later, after Jack’s taken a shower and Pitch has put Jack’s clothes in the wash and Seraphina’s coerced him into one of her onesies, they sit on the couch, Pitch on one end, Jack on the other, one foot brushing the rug and the other tucked under Pitch’s thigh. Seraphina is on the floor, leaning against the couch and commandeering the tub of ice cream. 

She’s put on Mulan, mouthing the words to every line, and mostly ignoring Jack and Pitch’s quiet chatter.

“Shhh!” she demands, smacking the both of them on the shins. “This is the best part.”

“You’ve said that three times already,” Jack points out with amusement, leaning forward to scoop a spoon of ice cream.

“It’s _all_ the best part,” Seraphina whispers adoringly. 

“Don’t argue with her,” Pitch advises. He pokes at Jack’s knee with his own spoon. “We should order in tonight. What do you fancy?”

Jack brightens at the prospect of hot food. “Oh, actually,” he realises, with a frown. “I should probably be getting back after this.”

“What? Why?” Seraphina demands, turning her head and bristling visibly. “Where do you think you’re going, young man?”

Jack laughs. “No, it’s just, my thesis is due in a couple of weeks, and I’ve got finals coming up soon.”

“So do your work here,” she says, leaning her head back to blink at Jack with puppy eyes. “I’ve got exams coming up too, and dad’s probably got, like, wrinkle ointments to shop for on Amazon.”

“Sera!” Pitch hisses, as Jack bursts into laughter. 

“Seriously, it’s fine, I don’t want to drag down your weekend,” Jack says, trying to get the image of Pitch in a facial mask with cucumbers on his eyes, out of his head. “I’m no fun when I’m studying.”

“You don’t always have to be fun,” Sera insists. “We’ll order pizza, have a study group slumber party. It’ll be neat. Wait, everyone shut up, this is my favourite song.”

Jack smiles as Seraphina starts humming along to the DVD, head shaking enthusiastically in time with the beat. 

“You don’t have to,” Pitch murmurs quietly, eyes on the screen. Jack looks to him, notices the way his jaw seems tense, shoulders raised stiffly.

“Do you want me to stay?” Jack asks, and Pitch does look at him then, eyebrows furrowed, as though he’s asked something ridiculous. Was it the wrong thing to say? Jack resists the urge to bite at his bottom lip out of self-consciousness. 

“Jack…” Pitch’s features soften, shoulders dropping, and he looks almost sad. “Of course I want you to stay.”

“Good,” Jack says, turning back to the film, “because pizza sounds _amazing_.”

 

#

 

They sit around the kitchen table eating pizza, Seraphina typing away on her laptop, Pitch marking what looks like student essays but could possibly be Star Trek fanfiction. Jack is going between his phone and textbooks, as usual, only, Pitch gets frustrated after a while and grabs his laptop from his bedroom and tells Jack to do his work on that instead, despite Jack’s insistence that he’s used to writing entire essays on his phone.

Seraphina gives up after a while, closing her laptop with a click before wishing Jack and Pitch goodnight. She kisses them both on the cheek and skips off to brush her teeth. Jack rubs at his cheek sheepishly, before getting back to work. 

“I meant to thank you,” Pitch says, clearing his throat. “For… everything.”

“You don’t have to,” Jack says, glancing up from his phone.

“I do,” Pitch says, looking vastly uncomfortable, “and I need to apologise for what I said to you last night.”

“Oh god,” Jack groans. “No, okay, this is weird. Just. It’s fine. I forgive you. I’m not mad. Carry on editing your Star Wars porn or whatever.”

Pitch eyes him critically before sighing in defeat. He gets up to make tea, asking Jack if he’d like anything despite him having turned down the offer the first seven times. 

They work for a few more hours, until Jack gets stuck, then unstuck, then bored. He manages to hold out until Pitch starts on his third set of essays, before he finally caves and asks.

“So what _do_ you teach, exactly?” Jack says, putting his phone down and kicking his feet up on Pitch’s lap, his heels rolling against his knees.

“Do your thesis,” Pitch tells him, not looking up. 

“No, but seriously,” Jack says, leaning back in his chair thoughtfully. “There’s not a single professor on the university website with the last name Black. Nice trick getting Seraphina’s to use it as her surname on Facebook, by the way. Are you both in witness protection or something?”

Pitch snorts. “The two of you _really_ need to watch less television.”

“But it _is_ a secret, then,” Jack guesses, twirling his pen between his fingers. “Come on, I’ll trade you for my real name.”

Pitch looks up, surprised. He lowers his pen and pulls his glasses off, examining Jack curiously. “It’s that important to you?”

He shrugs. “If it’s important that you keep it a secret, just say and I’ll stop asking.”

“I teach _Digital War Tactics and Cyberspace Battle Strategies_ ,” Pitch says after a moment. “It’s not really a secret, but I’d rather you not go ‘tweeting’ about it.”

“Oh,” Jack frowns, trying to place where he’s heard the subject before. “ _Hang on_ , isn’t that the course that Anonymous kid did a couple of years ago? He hacked the American military system and ended up doing some serious damage, had to seek asylum in Iceland or something like that? ShadoW? EbonY?”

“Her name was OnyX, and yes, she’s at the British Embassy in Antarctica.”

“I thought it was cancelled after that,” Jack says, before all the information sinks in, and he wants to kick himself. “Wow, wait, what the fuck, you’re _Kozmotis Pitchiner_?” Jack gawks, sitting up straighter. “You wrote the _Liberation of Virtual Information Manifesto_. Fuck off, no, actually fuck off, you’ve got to be kidding.”

Pitch rolls his eyes and spreads his arms. “Did you think I would be taller in person?”

“You almost started an international cyberwar like, not even that many years ago,” Jack exclaims, feeling giddy. “Is this real life? Is this my actual life right now?” 

“To be fair, that was unintentional,” Pitch says, drily. 

“Oh my god,” Jack laughs, burying his face in his hands. “So, when you say you ran in the same circles as the Sandman…”

“I mean, we were more or less archenemies, at one point or another,” Pitch says haughtily, examining his nails. “He tried to sue me.”

“You stole his coding and tried to change it into spyware!”

“Everyone steals coding!” Pitch glares. “And I didn’t _try_ , I very much _succeeded_.” 

“Oh my god,” Jack repeats, laughing. “Oh my god. Okay, I’m going to need about three weeks to process this. I’m dating a cyber-criminal. Is that why you have to use an alias? How do you get around university without the CIA or MI6 bursting into your seminars with handcuffs and arrest warrants?”

“As Sera likes to put it, ‘I only use my powers for good now’,” Pitch sniffs. “Secondly, the university has _technically_ hired me as a consultant, so my name doesn’t need to be listed in the campus database.”

“Nice loophole there,” Jack snorts.

“Thirdly, who said we were dating?” Pitch smiles, all teeth and gleaming eyes.

Jack starts, his cheeks heating. He lifts his chin in defiance. “Are you saying we’re not?”

“I’m not saying that at all,” Pitch says, leaning out of his chair and pushing himself into Jack’s space. “I’d just like to know when it was decided.”

 “I wanted to make it official on Facebook but y’know, both of us need an account for that to work,” Jack jokes. His breath hitches as Pitch presses a hand against his hip, he can feel the heat of it even through his jeans. Jack looks up, finds Pitch’s eyes trained on him, and realises he’s watching for Jack’s reaction. 

“What am I allowed?” Pitch asks, softly, voice barely a whisper. 

“I don’t know.” Jack shakes his head, unable to decide whether to look at Pitch’s eyes or his mouth. “I’ve never… I don’t know.” 

“May I kiss you?” Pitch asks, bumping their noses together.

Jack reaches up, tucks one hand around Pitch’s neck, and splays another on his chest, uncertain if he wants to pull him closer or push him away. 

“Just one kiss.” Jack nods, their lips so close he’s sure they’re sharing the same breath. “Is that okay?”

Pitch’s hand squeezes Jack’s hip in acquiesce, and closes the distance between them. 

Kissing is a lot softer and drier than Jack expects it to be. He’s not sure what to do so he just sits there, one hand fisted in Pitch’s shirt, the other squeezing at his nape, as Pitch nips lightly at his bottom lip. He gasps when a hot wet tongue slips out and licks at the seal of his mouth, jerking back in his seat.

Pitch drops his forehead against Jack’s shoulder with a laugh, tilting his head to the side to press a chaste kiss against his neck, making Jack shiver.

“Thank you,” Pitch says, and Jack can feel him smile against his skin. “I’ve been wanting to do that for weeks.”

“Oh,” Jack’s brain supplies.

Pitch pulls away, concern written in every line of his face. “Was that alright? Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Jack says quickly, shaking his head. “Can we try again?”

Pitch’s eyebrows knit together. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with. If you never want to do that again, I wouldn’t be upset with you, you understand.”

“No, I know,” Jack says, dismissively, licking his lips. “I just want to try again.”

Tentatively, Pitch sits back in his seat, which, really, is the opposite of what Jack wants, but then he smiles reassuringly. “Come here,” Pitch says, making space between his legs. “I’d feel better if we did it this way.”

Jack swallows, climbing out of his chair and standing between Pitch’s knees, setting his hands on his shoulders. Pitch closes his eyes, head tilted up, and it’s a gesture so full of trust that Jack feels winded. 

His eyes roam greedily over Pitch’s face, at the edges of his hairline, the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the dark lashes of his eyes, the small scar above his right eyebrow. His fingers are itching to _touch_ , and he knows Pitch will say yes if he asks, but Jack’s not sure he’s ready yet. 

Jack takes a steadying breath, hands trailing up to cup Pitch’s jaw; his fingers can feel the _thump_ of Pitch’s pulse, feels how fast his heart is beating. He leans down, hesitating for a split second, before slotting their mouths together. This time, Jack brushes his lips softly against Pitch’s, sucks shyly at his bottom lip, uncertain if he’s doing it right. 

Pitch stays perfectly still, letting Jack take his time, do as he pleases, but his lack of response makes Jack ravenous for reciprocation, and he wonders if this is how Pitch felt earlier. 

Jack nibbles at Pitch’s mouth, licks at it, pressing himself closer, as though if he tries hard enough he can climb inside Pitch and live in his chest and never be forgotten. Pitch let’s out a feeble groan, and when his lips part, Jack slips his tongue inside, curling it against the wet muscle he finds there, lapping at Pitch’s sharp teeth, wanting friction. 

Something in Pitch must snap, because the next thing Jack knows, there’s a hot tongue in his mouth, thrusting in and out, sliding slick and filthy against his own, sucking wetly at him, hands clutching at his hips, his waist, pulling him closer, making him whimper. A telling bulge presses significantly against his thigh and Jack’s eyes snap open.

“Stop,” Jack gasps. “Too much.”

Pitch jerks back as though burned, hands snapping away from Jack’s back. He’s panting heavily, eyes blown wide, and Jack _loves_ that he did that to him. But Jack needs to know that Pitch won’t push him further than he can go. 

“That - I apologise, I forgot myself,” Pitch says, uneasily. “Jack, I-”

“It’s okay,” Jack promises, with a watery laugh, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry I freaked out on you.”

“No, it’s fine,” Pitch says, with a bitter huff of his own. “I’m sorry, I crossed the line; I tried to take more than was offered. It won’t happen again.” 

His tone reminds Jack of that night not too long ago when Pitch had offered Jack to sleep in his bed for the first time.

“I don’t mean to push you away,” Jack says, rubbing at the back of his neck. 

Pitch shakes his head. “I shouldn’t be putting you in positions where you need to.”

Jack smiles, he can’t help it. He’s certain he’s in love, even if he’s still terrified of the prospect. Strangely, Pitch has a way of making him feel like he can do anything, like nothing can be too bad as long as they’re together.

“Can we go to bed?” Jack asks. 

Pitch holds out his hand and Jack takes it.

They lie in the centre of the bed, not quite touching, though close enough Jack can smell peppermint toothpaste with Pitch’s every exhale. Pitch leaves a hand curled in front of his face, and Jack longs to slip his own into it, but there’s something he needs to do first.

“Jackson Overland,” Jack murmurs into the dark. “That’s my name.” 

Pitch hadn’t been moving, but he notably stills. Jack shoves down at the fear creeping up his throat and continues.

“When I applied for the scholarship, I didn’t know I’d need a passport. I didn’t really… In retrospect, I don’t know if I would have applied if I’d known. I mean, it makes sense, right? Even if I didn’t need it for my visa, I’d need a passport to get a plane ticket. I guess it just never occurred to me; I’d never left the state, let alone the country, how would I have known?”

Jack fidgets with the corner of his pillowcase, remembering how crestfallen he’d been. He’d been so excited to be accepted into the program, only to read the instructions in the email and have his hopes dashed. 

“My friend, Jamie, he told me he knew a guy who could get me a passport,” Jack continues, with a shaky breath. “I don’t have a birth certificate, or, if I do, somebody else has it, and I don’t know my social security number or if I even have one. So it, it seemed like the best option at the time.

“I wasn’t… I didn’t know if I should go through with it. Fraud, that’s serious stuff, y’know? The jail time can be pretty bad; it’s not like stealing M&Ms from 7/11 or a roast chicken from Walmart, I could go away for a really long time.” Jack closes his eyes. He knows Pitch is looking at him, can feel the weight of his gaze. 

He’s never told anybody any of this. Jamie’s the only one who knows what he’s done, but they never speak about it, not really, not now when any conversation can leave a digital trail.

“I have a bed in the dormitories for as long as I’m a student, and I’m a student for as long as I maintain my grades,” Jack explains. “My program comes with a guaranteed graduate career policy. When I graduate, if I can’t find a job on my own, the university will give me one. And I want to… I have to pay Jamie back. Say thank you, for everything he’s done.”

Jamie was the first person to ever really _see_ Jack. See more than a kid sleeping on a park bench outside the local library. 

“ _How come you’re always here_?” Jamie asked, arms full of library books on mythical creatures. 

“ _I like camping_ ,” Jack grinned in reply. “ _Is that a book on the Lochness monster_?”

Jamie was only a kid at the time, bringing Jack sandwiches after school, and blankets when it started to snow. 

He gave Jack his phone after his parents bought him a new one, showed him how to use it, and which places in town he could lurk outside to get free wifi. He introduced Jack to Twitter, where Jack met Tooth, and Sandy, and Bunny. Tooth was the one to tell him about the scholarship, but Jamie was the one to encourage him to apply for it.

“ _I believe in you_ ,” Jamie said, all brown eyes and toothy smile. “ _You can do this, Jack._ ”

Sometimes Jack isn’t sure he’d be alive today if it weren’t for Jamie Bennett. 

“I’ve worked really hard to get here,” Jack whispers. “A lot of it was luck, but a lot of it was hard work too.”

“Jack,” Pitch murmurs, softly. “Come here.”

Jack swallows, opening his eyes. Pitch holds out an arm, and Jack shifts close on the bed until it’s wrapped around him.

“I’m glad you were born into this world at a time when I could meet you.” Pitch whispers into Jack’s hair. “But I’m sorry about what you’ve been through; you deserve better than what the world has done to you - you deserve to feel cared for. Loved.”

Jack trembles at the words - they feel like they’re for somebody else, not for him. Words like that don’t exist for Jack. His hands shake against where they’re curled against Pitch’s chest. He’s so warm, and his words burn so deep it’s painful. 

He feels Pitch inhale, ready to speak, and he gasps, panicked.

“Don’t,” Jack pleads, voice shot, because he can’t hear those words, not right now. “I can’t.”

Pitch hums agreeably, pressing a kiss to his hair, nudging one of Jack’s cold ankles with a toe, and it hurts, knowing that he’s had to stop Pitch from saying _that_ to Jack, when it’s so clear that he does, but Jack isn’t ready to hear it. He’s not sure when he will be.

They don’t speak anymore after that, and soon, Jack falls asleep to the sound of Pitch’s breathing.


	5. until we see the sun

Finally, it’s done, over. His thesis is gone, submitted, out of his hands. It can’t hurt him anymore.

Jack resists the urge to dance his way from the submission office across campus, but it takes a _lot_ of self-restraint. He deserves a fucking medal, really. 

He’s just sent a tweet out, complete with celebratory emojis and crying-laughing faces, and is about to send Pitch a text message when he hears his name in a very, very familiar voice.

“Jack?”

Jack almost drops his phone, whirling around, eyes searching rapidly before they land on messy dark hair, brown eyes and a toothy smile, and _it can’t be_.

“Jamie…?” Jack whispers, eyebrows furrowing.

And it _is_. Jack would recognise him anywhere, even after four long years. 

He’s grown taller since Jack left (he’s going to be taller than Jack in no time), gained some new freckles across his nose, filled out in the way teenagers tend to. He’s dressed in a brown thick coat with a fluffy hood, and carrying a green worn-out backpack that Jack could never forget, even if he tried.

“You really gotta turn location services off on your phone,” Jamie laughs, bounding over. “It is _way_ too easy to figure out where you are from your tweets. Are you still using Swarm? You haven’t checked-in for, like, a _whole year_. I know it sucks compared to Foursquare, but come on Jack, how am I meant to follow you if you don’t tell me where you are?” 

“What are you _doing_ here?” Jack breathes, hand hovering in the space between them. He’s almost scared to touch him, worried he’s imagining this and his hand will pass straight through. 

“School art trip,” Jamie beams, and he hasn’t lost any of that boyish excitement that Jack loves so much. “New York, London and Paris. Have you been to Paris yet? Did you know you can take a _train_ to get there?”

“You’re… you’re really here,” Jack blinks rapidly, hand lowering inch by inch, until it settles on a very firm, very solid shoulder. He squeezes once, letting out a disbelieving laugh. 

“I’m meant to be in a gallery at Whitechapel; Pippa’s covering for me right now. We’ve got, like, twenty minutes before I have to bail,” Jamie grins. He knocks Jack’s hand away and tackles him with a hug, and god, have Jamie’s hugs always been this fierce? Like he’s reaching inside and squeezing at Jack’s very heart?

“I missed you, Jack,” Jamie says into Jack’s neck. “I’ve missed you so much.”

Jack wraps his arms around him and laughs hard, thinks he might cry if he doesn’t. “I missed you too, Jamie Bennett.”

“How have you been!” Jamie exclaims, pulling away excitedly. “I mean, in general. You haven’t been online as much - Oh, wait, we need to take a picture for Twitter. Sophie’s gonna be so jealous. Okay, okay, smile. More teeth! Yep, okay, perfect. One more.”

Jack laughs, pulling ridiculous faces with Jamie for the camera. 

“Okay, you can talk now,” Jamie says, locking his phone.

“Wait, give me that,” Jack says, grabbing Jamie’s phone before he tucks it away. He fiddles around in the settings. “I’ve learnt something really cool this week that I think you’ll like.” 

Jamie leans over, his hair so close it tickles Jack’s nose. 

“Are you…?”

“Yep.”

“Wait, so I can…?”

“Yep.”

“From any…?”

“Yep.”

“Wow, cool!” Jamie exclaims. “Oh, man, I’m going to save so much on data bills. Wait. Hang on, isn’t this illegal?”

Jack rolls his eyes. “You have a problem with using a script that automatically hacks into all wifi networks available, but you’re fine with helping me commit fraud?”

“ _That_ was for the greater good,” Jamie insists, before shrugging. “But this is fun, so we’ll pretend it counts as the greater good.”

Jack snickers, ruffling Jamie’s hair, then, just because he can, wrapping his arms around him. His phone vibrates in his pocket, and Jack startles, pulling away to take his phone out.

“Wow, _what_? Are you _still_ using the xPhone 2.0?” Jamie bursts. “Dude, that phone is an antique. How have you not upgraded? I thought you got a job with Sanderson Industries?”

“I’ve only been there a total of two weeks, and hey, I’m rather attached to this phone, a good friend of mine gave it to me,” Jack shrugs, unable to shake the grin from his face. He winks at Jamie’s responding beam, checking his texts. “You said twenty minutes, right? Don’t suppose you wanna get a hot chocolate and a bite? It’s on me. And you can meet Pitch and Seraphina.”

“Seraphina?” Jamie starts, following Jack across campus, jogging to keep up. “Seraphina Black? The one who’s always posting selfies of the both of you on Facebook?”

“Jealous?” Jack teases.

“ _Yes_. She’s… I mean. You’ve seen her vlogs, right? She doesn’t get many hits but wow, she’s… magic.”

“I meant are you jealous of _her_ , not of me,” Jack says, amused. “I don’t know how you watch those videos, they’re really creepy, and she does that thing with the doll heads and thumbtacks.” 

Jamie sighs dreamily, and Jack can only frown in mild concern, ushering the both of them to the cafe. 

Later, when he’s trying to drag Jamie away from Seraphina so he won’t be late getting back to the gallery, and Pitch is laughing mercilessly at Jack’s inability to get Seraphina to stop talking for _one minute you can message each other in half an hour seriously that’s not even an entire hour_ , Jack thinks to himself it’s fitting that the people he loves would love each other so easily. 

“Can I sneak into his room at the hostel?” Seraphina asks, and her face is terrifying. It’s clear she isn’t asking permission; she’s informing them, ready to annihilate anyone who tries to stop her. 

The face doesn’t seem to work on Pitch the way it does Jack. He hums noncommittally, looking at his nails. 

“I’ll clean my hair out of the bathroom drain for a month,” she declares, when Pitch doesn’t budge.

“You’re supposed to do that already,” he frowns. “Have you _not_ been doing that?”

“They leave for Paris tomorrow. I might never ever ever _ever_ see him again, in my entire life.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Pitch snorts, derisively. “I know how Skype works.”

“ _Daaaaad_ ,” she whines, before catching herself and clearing her throat. “Fine. What do you want?”

“No _One Direction_ music, in any form, for four weeks,” Pitch says immediately.

“Two weeks, and I can still listen to them with headphones,” she counters.

“Four weeks, with headphones,” Pitch parries. “You can play the latest album on the stereo, but if I hear any track from _Up All Night_ one more time, I will throw that infuriating singing toothbrush of yours in the trash.”

“Fine,” Seraphina sighs, sounding theatrically put-upon. It’s ruined by her petrifying grin and gleaming eyes. She pulls her phone out, tapping away excitedly.

“Sera,” Pitch hums. He waits for her to stop typing and give him her full attention. “ _Don’t_ get caught, _don’t_ smuggle him alcohol, and _don’t_ , under any circumstance that doesn’t involve a time machine, have sex.”

She squints up at him. “Fine.”

Jack looks between the two of them, and shakes his head. He has no idea how he landed himself part of the most bizarre family on the planet. He takes his phone out of his pocket, considers sending Jamie a message, but figures that’s probably what Seraphina’s doing that very second.

His phone vibrates in his hand.

@LastLight mentioned you in a tweet: _@JackFrost thnx 4 today it was rly nice 2 c u miss u alrdy x_

Jack smiles.

“He seems like a good kid,” Pitch says, that night, when they’re lying in bed. Pitch is propped up by about fifty pillows, his laptop on another pillow on his thighs. Jack is sprawled sideways across the bed, pillowless, his legs strewn across Pitch’s bony knees, scrolling through the photos Jamie posted of them on Facebook.

“Jamie’s the reason I’m here,” Jack points out, tracing spirals onto Pitch’s abdomen with his fingertips.

“ _You’re_ the reason you’re here,” Pitch snorts, shutting his laptop and placing it on the floor. He uses the pillow remaining to smack Jack rudely in the face. “He gave you raisins and a walkie-talkie.”

“ _You’re_ such an ass.” Jack pulls the pillow off and sits up to smack him on the thigh. “I wouldn’t have made it to London if it weren’t for him, and I wouldn’t have met your sorry face.”

“ _Please_ ," Pitch scoffs. " _Jamie_ didn’t write your submission essay for you, _Jamie_ didn’t get you the scholarship, and he certainly didn’t introduce us - I think I would have remembered that,” Pitch says, taking his glasses off and leaving them on the nightstand.  “He might have helped you pave the way, but the hard work? That was all you, Jack. You should be proud of yourself.”

“How do you say these things with a straight face,” Jack groans, rolling his face into Pitch’s thighs in embarrassment.

“I suppose I should spare you from the significance of procuring a job all on your own,” Pitch hums, combing his hand through Jack’s hair, “in a field you’re anticipated to succeed in.”

“That was all luck,” Jack mumbles. “How was I supposed to know the Sandy following me on Twitter was _the_ Sandman? He’s only got about a hundred followers on his account. I’ve been sending him the turd emoji for years.”

“The little shit probably thought it was cute,” Pitch bites out bitterly. Jack rolls his eyes; despite his insistence that Sandy is a really great guy, Pitch seems insistent on disagreeing. “We should get that tweet you posted framed. What did it say? ‘Hi, I’m Jack Frost and I’m good at minesweeper and selfies. Hire me’?” 

“Hashtag hire me,” Jack mumbles into Pitch’s skin. “His response was six thumbs up emojis and a link to the job application.”

“Pretentious,” Pitch comments distastefully. 

Jack nips at him playfully with his teeth, making the hand in his hair tighten in warning. Jack huffs out a laugh and does it again, only he laves the spot with his tongue in apology, relishing in the audible hitch in his partner’s breath. 

Encouraged, Jack bites down gently and sucks wetly, earning a gasp. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get sick of the noises he can coax out of Pitch. He swirls the tip of his tongue on the spot and presses a light kiss there.

“Jack,” Pitch warns, quietly. The hand in Jack’s hair tugs meaningfully. “You should probably stop.”

Jack lifts his head, pressing his cheek against warm skin, blinking up at Pitch with a tentative smile. “What if I don’t want to?”

Pitch stares at him with hooded eyes, and Jack can see he’s half hard in his briefs; this close he can almost smell his arousal. 

They haven’t done much more than make-out. Jack’s still not sure whether he’d be okay with Pitch putting his hand on him, but he’s been thinking about helping Pitch get off for weeks now. He likes the noises Pitch makes, likes the way his body responds so eagerly to his ministrations. 

Jack sits up so he can scoot closer, kiss Pitch on the shoulder. He presses his mouth against his collarbone, rubs his nose against his neck, licks leisurely at the skin there, adoring the fine tremors he can invoke with just his mouth. Brazenly, he runs his hands against Pitch’s chest, casually brushing against a nipple and making Pitch hiss.

Pitch’s own hands are fisted in the sheets, and while Jack knows Pitch would rather be touching him right now, he’s grateful for his recognition of Jack’s limits. It’s a display of consideration he hadn’t known was possible until he met Pitch.

He bites at Pitch’s jaw, shuddering at the groan it incites. He could get off on the way Pitch responds to him - he _has_ \- but right now, what he really wants, is to get _Pitch_ off. 

“Can I…?” Jack breathes softly, hand sliding from Pitch’s chest, down his abdomen resting just above his hip.

Pitch groans, his head dropping back against the headboard, as though Jack has said something filthy. “Yes,” he manages, squeezing his eyes shut, throat working visibly around a swallow. “Yes, to whatever it is you were going to ask, anything, everything, whatever you want.”

Jack laughs softly, pressing a quick kiss to his chest. Carefully, he presses the palm of his hand against the significant bulge in his briefs, watching Pitch carefully. When he does nothing but stay perfectly still, Jack squeezes modestly through the fabric, noting with nothing short of awe a flush is spreading high on his cheekbones. Slowly, hesitantly, he starts stroking, alternating between firmness of grip, watching Pitch’s face, listening to his breathing, trying to figure out how he likes it. 

It’s really very surreal, doing this to someone, and Jack isn’t sure how he feels about it, but if Pitch is enjoying it, then it’s worth the wavering difficulty.

“Is this okay?” Jack asks, uncertain.

Pitch opens his eyes, lowering his head to pin him with a burning stare, and there’s no mistaking the desire in his face. Emboldened, Jack slips his hand into the gap in the pants, amazed at the silken heat he finds there. Pitch’s jaw tenses, but he holds Jack’s gaze as he strokes him, working him slower, then faster, testing speed and grip with no barrier in between.

“I’m gonna, uh…” Jack says, vaguely, manoeuvring himself onto his stomach. It’s a little uncomfortable, with his erection trapped against the bed, but it’s easy enough to ignore.

“Jack?” Pitch breathes in disbelief, when Jack wets his lips, taking him back in hand. He’s staring at Jack with wide eyes, as though he’s not sure whether he’s awake or dreaming. 

“I, uh, I don’t really know what I’m doing,” Jack warns, stroking him distractedly. “So, just pull me off if it’s terrible.”

Pitch opens his mouth to reply, but it’s lost to a strangled whimper when Jack licks at the head of his erection. Jack has absolutely no trained technique to speak of, so he just let’s his mouth do what it likes. His tongue laps at Pitch the way he would at ice cream, his mouth sucks at the tip the way he would a popsicle. He tries taking more in, bobbing his head up and down, but it proves awkward, and he doesn't enjoy the way his oxygen cuts off when the head hits the back of his throat, so he goes back to using his tongue and mouth on the head, stroking the bottom of his shaft with his hand.  

It must be okay, because Pitch’s breath leaves him in choked gasps, hips jerking in aborted movements. His thighs are tense to the point of trembling. It makes Jack light-headed, makes him feel weak and powerful all at the same time, to know he's the one doing this. Pitch is watching him in amazement, hardly blinking, like he's afraid to look away, if even for a split second. Jack moans, knows his face is flushed, unbelievably turned on, his cock aching in his boxers.

“ _Jack_ ,” Pitch says, voice cracked, and he sounds _ruined_. “You’re going to… I’m…”

A jolt of arousal punches him in the gut; he’s never heard Pitch sound like that before. Jack moves his hand faster, laves his tongue across the head, breathes hotly through his mouth, watching Pitch fall apart. 

He lets out a cry, throwing his head back just as hot liquid splashes onto Jack’s tongue. He seals his mouth over it, tries to continue pumping his hand at the same time, but it’s awkward, so he swallows what he can catch, and tries not to be too irked about the mess on his hand. 

“Fuck,” Pitch groans, staring blearily at Jack in despair, his cock twitching against his lips.

The taste of semen bothers him a lot less than the feel of it against his skin, so he licks the side of his wrist clean, ducking his head at the whine it elicits from Pitch. 

“You’re going to be the end of me,” Pitch complains, voice hoarse. He releases the sheets, reaching for Jack. “Would you like me to do anything? What would you like? Would you like me to turn away? I can leave the room. Are you tired? Should I stop prattling on and let us sleep? Dear lord, you’ve done it - you’ve broken me.”

Jack laughs, tucking Pitch’s softening dick back into his pants and climbing onto his lap. He runs his hands through his hair, nuzzles affectionately at his cheek, presses a chaste kiss just below his ear. 

“I love you,” Jack says, unable to keep the grin from his face. “I really, really love you.”

A hand presses questioningly against his hip, but Jack doesn’t know if he can look Pitch in the eye just yet. Pitch seems to figure it out, wrapping both arms around Jack’s waist, burying his face into his shirt.

“I love you too,” Pitch says, softly. 

Jack pulls back with a smile, combing his fingers through inky hair. He strokes his thumbs at the fragile skin underneath Pitch’s eyes, runs his fingertips against the side of his jaw, marvelling at the way Pitch lets him touch, asking nothing in return. 

“Believe it or not, I’m really not sleepy,” Jack says, leaning forward to press kisses against Pitch’s very lovely cheekbones. 

Pitch raises his eyebrows at that, nonplussed. “Would you like my hand? My mouth?”

Jack shakes his head, shifting Pitch’s arms from his waist and moving them back onto the bed. He cups the back of Pitch’s head with one hand, liking the feel of his hair between his fingers, leaving the other in his lap. Pitch watches him curiously, until Jack asks, uncertainly. “Can you close your eyes again for me? And, um, leave them closed?”

He does as requested, eyelashes dark against his cheeks. Jack presses a soft kiss against his mouth, pulling him closer with one hand, coaxing his lips open with his own. Pitch catches on quickly, kissing back heavily, slipping a slick tongue into Jack’s mouth for him to suckle on, slide his tongue against. 

Jack rubs tentatively at his erection through his shorts, apprehensive of anxiety or discomfort possibly flaring in his gut, unsure of what his mind likes and doesn’t, suspicious this is a personal boundary he’s crossing. When nothing but desire shoots down his spine, Jack slips his hand into his pyjamas, stroking firmly, Pitch’s teeth scraping against his bottom lip making him gasp.

Eyes still closed, Pitch presses a wet kiss to Jack’s neck, biting down when Jack tightens his grip on his hair. He sucks sharply at Jack’s neck, dragging sharp teeth against his flesh and making him mewl and jerk himself faster. He tries to keep his fear of not being able to reach orgasm from deterring him, but it's there, at the back of his mind, a dark shadow he's resolved to ignore.

He guides Pitch’s mouth to the places where his neck feels most sensitive, pulling him closer by the neck when he wants him to bite down harder, murmuring noises of encouragement, the sensations making that coil inside him curl tighter. His strokes become wilder, less controlled, and when Pitch bites down at the junction between his neck and shoulder, Jack keens, hips jerking against Pitch’s lap. His arse rubs against Pitch’s groin, where his erection has renewed. The friction startles a moan out of Pitch, the sound deep and gravelly and breathtakingly arousing.

His orgasm finds him slower than he’d like, creeping up on him rather suddenly after long moments of dragging noises out of Pitch. Jack cries out in relief, his hips stuttering uncontrollably in Pitch’s lap. His hand clenches against Pitch’s shoulder when Pitch jerks his head back, eyes squeezed shut hard in a flinch, like the prospect of Jack coming on top of him is the most arousing thing he could fathom. The pleasure bursts from Jack’s abdomen outwards, until his whole body is closing in on itself trying to contain it. He moans brokenly into Pitch’s neck, trying to hold himself together.

He keeps stroking himself, throat catching on fragmented whines, until he’s wrung out the last of the tremors. 

When it’s over, he pants heavily, resting his forehead against Pitch’s collarbone, pulling his hand out of his pants with a grimace. The unwelcome cold ache that follows his orgasm spreads under his skin and he drops bodily to the side of the bed, trying to get his breathing under control. 

“Hey,” he croaks, nudging Pitch with his foot. “I want cuddling.”

It startles a shock of laughter out of Pitch, who immediately opens his eyes to run them over Jack’s prone form. Pitch’s smouldering gaze burns at Jack’s skin, and he looks like a wolf determined to devour Jack whole. It makes Jack's heart hurt, makes him want to curl up and cry. 

Instead, he makes a show of rolling his eyes and kicking Pitch feebly, before letting his eyelids flutter shut.

“I’m sleepy now,” Jack tells him, even though he’s not. “Spoon me until I fall asleep.”

“You slept yesterday,” Pitch hums, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. He climbs off the bed, to Jack’s annoyance. Jack opens his eyes when a clean pair of boxers hits him in the face. He grins when Pitch sits on the edge of the bed, his back to him.

Jack sighs loudly and changes out of his soiled pants, wiping the mess up and tossing it across the room into the laundry basket. 

“Thanks,” he says, flopping back onto the bed.

Pitch says nothing, turning and tugging the blankets out from where Jack’s lying on them, then turning the lights off and curling around him, pressing his chest to Jack’s back. 

Jack clasps Pitch's hands in his, pressing a kiss to them and pulling Pitch closer. The heat of being enveloped in another person is nothing short of stifling, but Jack could use with being engulfed right now. 

“You know the night we met, when you went out for semi-skimmed milk,” Jack begins.

“It’s beyond me why you find it prudent to specify the type of milk I buy on every occasion, but yes, I haven’t forgotten,” Pitch replies. 

“Did you even need the milk at four in the morning?” Jack inquires. “Or the tea bags? You’ve always got about ten spare boxes in the pantry.”

“Mm, not really,” Pitch says. Jack can feel his voice grumbling in his chest, against his back. “I couldn’t sleep, so I thought perhaps I’d go out for a walk, clear my mind.”

“Huh,” Jack blinks, squeezing his hand idly. 

“Why do you ask?” 

“No, nothing,” Jack hums, fiddling with Pitch’s fingers. “It’s just weird to think if we’d both managed to fall asleep that night, we probably wouldn’t have met.”

“You’re rather insistent on directing your focus towards the little things that brought us here, aren’t you?” Pitch says, drily. “Do you not think we were inevitable, then?”

“Us being together? Not really,” Jack shrugs. “I’m pretty sure it was all luck.”

“Luck or fate, it’s reality,” Pitch says, stifling a yawn. He presses his nose into Jack’s hair, sighing tiredly. “If you end up playing Netflix on your phone, keep the volume down.”

“Okay,” Jack says easily. “Sweet dreams.”

“Already in one,” Pitch murmurs, already half gone.

Jack smiles. He glances at his phone on the bedside table; it’s close enough he can reach it if he lets go of Pitch’s hand. Jack closes his eyes, listening to the sound of Pitch’s soft snores. 

He’s seen everything on Netflix anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'ed. Please let me know if you find any errors. If you would like me to tag more trigger/content warnings, or if you've found any language used inappropriate or problematic, please don't hesitate to let me know; I appreciate all call-outs.


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